


Two Worlds Collide

by the1Nblack



Category: Daredevil (TV), Supernatural
Genre: And I Tried to Throw in Some Humor Where I Could, Angst, Bottom Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Demon Influenced Sam, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Language, M/M, Mention of Prostitution (underage), Self Confidence Issues, Spanking, Team Dean's Red Ass, Top Matt Murdock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 127,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6227899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1Nblack/pseuds/the1Nblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set Mid-Season One of Supernatural and Post-Season One of Daredevil:  Still searching for their Father in spite of his warnings to stay away, Dean and Sam are in New York City investigating a series of murders where the victims all have ties to Lawrence, Kansas.  Their investigation leads them to Josie's Bar where the most recent victim, had been employed.  The brothers should have scoped out the situation and uh...maybe checked out the jukebox, before whipping out their fake FBI badges for Agents Bonham and Plant.  Josie calls for back-up to handle the baby-faced imposters who are asking too many questions about Meredith's death, but Dean can't keep his mouth shut and the situation goes from bad to Oh-Shit-We're-About-To-Make-Our-Own-Quentin Tarantino-Movie.  To avert disaster (and prevent the destruction of a pretty freakin' awesome jukebox) Sam and Dean find themselves telling strangers about the monsters they hunt and (gasp) asking for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Josie Ain't No Pussycat

**Author's Note:**

> To those for whom it matters: The case is based loosely on Supernatural Season One: Shadows with the location of the crime being moved from Chicago to New York City. I also took liberties with the Supernatural time line moving the events in Asylum to come after Scarecrow instead of before it. And, while I was at it, I made Dean 3 and a half years older than Sam instead of 4 and a half.
> 
> I own nothing of Supernatural, Daredevil or Marvel, but it sure is fun to get to play in their worlds. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing.
> 
> And this is my first posting, so please be kind as I try to learn my way around.

Chapter 1  
May 5, 2005  
Hell’s Kitchen, New York City

 

“Dean…” The word held fondness, more than a faint hint of exasperation, and…yep, there it was, Bitchface # 8 for the day.

“I’m just sayin’, Sammy, there’s a reason hunters don’t come to the Big Apple,” the shorter man complained, tugging up the collar of his second hand overcoat to fight the cold rain through his thin suit. Hell’s Kitchen? Place shoulda been called Witch’s Tit, ‘cause that’s sure as hell what it felt like.

“Because finding a case, much less a monster, is like finding a needle in a haystack?” his baby-faced moose of a brother responded matter-of-factly.

“Parking.” Dean frowned. “It’d be cheaper to get Baby her own hotel room.”

“I told you we could have parked out of town and caught the train…”

He was cut off by a glare and Dean’s own more scowl-ly version of a bitchface, and as much as Sam wanted to call Dean out on it, he knew if he did he’d likely find itching powder in his duffel bag or Nair in his shampoo bottle. No, it was better to suffer in silence. Dean’s rant on taxis… (“…paying someone else to drive me? ‘S like a freakin’ sign of the apocalypse, man. If I ain’t in the driver’s seat then I ain’t in the driver’s seat and you better break out the salt and holy water. That’s gotta be…”) came to an abrupt halt as Sam nudged his shoulder and gave a jerk of his head upwards, drawing Dean’s attention to the splash of red neon painting the gray afternoon with the words Josie’s Bar.

Like magic, Dean seemed to age a handful of years and grow an inch or two taller as he donned his Fed persona. “This the place?”

“Yeah. Found a paystub and work schedule stuck to the fridge in her apartment.”

“And she worked the night of the murder?”

Sam shrugged as he brushed his fingers through his unruly hair in his own attempt to look the part, “’S what was on the schedule. We’ll see if she showed up.”

Usually getting this kind of background information was as simple as stopping by the local PD and flashing the badges that identified them as special agents for the FBI, but that was yet another problem with big cities where the Feds had as many offices as the locals and the chances of being spotted as an imposter were just too high. With Dean recently being labeled both a murderer and a dead man in California thanks to a sadistic shifter, it was a risk even experienced gamblers like the Winchesters found too steep.

The bell over the door cheerily announced their arrival and the brothers took a moment to orient themselves to the dim incandescent lighting ensconced behind green shades which gave everything a kind of yellow tint like the stains on the fingers of a twenty-year smoker lighting up two packs a day. Suddenly Dean was no longer in New York City, this was every dive bar in every town big or small in every state in the Union. And he would know, he’d seen them all. Some more than once. This was home, from the snick of each step as the soles of his shoes clung to generations of dirt, blood and spilled alcohol which could never be scrubbed off the concrete floor; to the cracked vinyl of the red seats of the booths and bar stools; to the spotless gleam of the bar top which glowed like God’s honey; to the pool tables barely visible in the back where two shadowy figures sat hunched over in deep conversation. It was two-ish in the afternoon and aside from the two guys in the back, there were no other customers. With renewed confidence and his customary swagger, Dean strode up to the bar and flashed his badge and the mega-watt grin that made cougars and candy stripers both cream their panties. The bartender was less than impressed.

Josie crossed her bare arms over her chest and leaned against the back of the bar, away from the smarmy young shit. She was tired of strangers in her place with their fake sympathy and their nosy questions, leaving her no time to mourn the girl herself and remember the good things. “I’ve already talked to the police. Told you everything I know. Statement’s been recorded, go get a copy.”

Dean blinked owlishly, taken aback as always when some woman didn’t fall for his charm. Sam would have rolled his eyes if it weren’t for the hostile bar matron in ripped flannel who looked like she might have a shotgun under the bar and might just know how to use it and dispose of the bodies. He angled himself between Dean and the bartender and turned on the big brown puppy dog eyes, dimples and soothing voice. “Ma’am, we’re sorry to bother you, we really are, but the truth is everyone is stumped. The local police have called for our assistance and we wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t go over all the evidence again.”

She knew that. She did. Just… “Look, Meredith was a good kid. She worked here to earn some extra money and because she liked the work, but she was from a good family that took care of her.” She raised a hand to cut off the onslaught of questions she knew was coming: “No, I never met them, but she talked about them plenty and it was all good and she wasn’t faking…” she fixed Dean with a steely glare and was surprised when the reprimand caused the cocksure young lawman to drop his eyes to stare at his feet. She relaxed her shoulders and began wiping down the bar. It wasn’t needed but it was soothing to her, something she could do, something she could control, as if all was right with the world when the smooth oak planks of the bar shone like top shelf whiskey. “She didn’t have a boyfriend at the moment, or a girlfriend. No stalkers or crazy exes. No problems with anyone here that night. Wasn’t worried. Wasn’t frightened. It was a normal night. Had a test the next mornin’ so she left a bit early. Around eleven.” She slung the bar towel over her shoulder and crossed her arms again. “That’s all I can tell you.” She met the eyes of both agents realizing how young they were for the first time. And that haircut on the tall one…ain’t no way that was fed regulation…

“I didn’t catch your names, agents.”

“Special Agent Page and this is my partner Special Agent Bonham,” Sam provided the information.

The alarm bells went off in Dean’s head as the older woman’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She reminded him of the wife of a hunter friend of his father’s. Ellen Harvelle: his brain supplied the name from his childhood. Both women had the uncanny ability to make him feel like a six year old about to get his butt blistered. Come to think of it, Missouri had that same power over him. What the hell? Dean began mentally cataloging the older women he had met, largely a series of nameless waitresses in countless greasy spoon diners, nearly hyperventilating at his newly discovered weakness.

“Brett!” Dean snapped out of his trance like she’d rapped his knuckles with a ruler. Josie didn’t take her eyes off the two men as she called out. “You an’ Turk want to come on up here an’ help me deal with a little problem?”

The Winchesters immediately took a defensive position trying to look both non-threatening and too tough mess with at the same time and failing on both counts as the two shadowy forms from the back of the bar grew larger. “Look, we don’t want any trouble…” Dean raised his hands in supplication, subtly attempting to place himself in front of his larger younger brother while he spoke, ignoring Bitchface #9.

“Problem, Josie?” asked a cherub-faced black man approximately Dean’s height, dressed in a shirt and tie, blazer and khakis. He gave the Winchesters the once-over before raising an eyebrow at the bar owner. His companion, another black man who was nearly as tall as Sam, chewed on a toothpick and glowered. Under the tight fit of his leather jacket, Dean noticed the bulge of a weapon in a shoulder holster, and from the way he felt Sam go tense, Sam noticed too.

“They’re askin’ questions about Meredith,” the bartender…make that bar owner, said that with a curled lip like an accusation of child abuse. She reached over to pluck the slim wallet holding Dean’s badge out of his hand and tossed it to the smaller of the two men.

“FBI?” he asked, with a slight uptick at the end, bordering on disbelief.

Dean lowered his hands and once again donned the persona. “Agents Bonham and Page…” He stopped when both men began to snicker, the shorter man flashing the wallet open so the taller one could see.

“’S a good fake,” the older man acknowledged. “Might’ve worked if you weren’t stupid.” The toothpick twitched and his hand began to move.

“Hey!” Dean protested.

“Told you,” Sam grumbled as Bitchface #10 made an appearance, but the brothers had lived together too long and through too many close calls not to be able to argue while taking care of business.

“Whoa. Whoa. WHOA!” Brett tried to diffuse the situation as he suddenly found the newcomers pointing weapons at Turk and Josie while those two had a pistol and shotgun aimed at the others’ heads. He was ignored by the strangers who continued their argument.

“I tell you every freakin’ case that those names are too obvious! Much as I don’t like your music, Dean, there are lots of fans out there.”

“Smith.” Dean appealed with his eyes to the tall black man even as he kept his weapon trained on the man. “He wants me to be Special Agent Smith. Where’s the fun in that, I ask you?”

“It’s not supposed to be fun, you idiot!”

“And Wesson,” Dean continued, sharing his exasperated look with the unarmed man now as well. “He was going to be Agent Wesson. A goddamn cooking oil!”

“It’s a gun, Dean! Smith and Wesson. It’s a gun.”

Dean rolled his eyes and looked to the big black man again, “And he says I’m the obvious one.”

“Crazier ‘n Wade Wilson,” Josie muttered.

“Ah, hell, I hope not,” Brett shook his head and raised a hand to swipe at his face.

“Ah.Ah.Ah,” Dean chided. “Hands stay still.”

“Who the fuck are these jokers?” Turk demanded, keeping his gun trained on the squirrelly one.

“Came in posin’ as Feds askin’ questions about Meredith.” Josie kept her shotgun aimed at the smooth-faced giant. “Don’t even look old enough to cross the street without adult supervision.”

Brett snorted back a laugh in spite of the situation.

“Hey!” Dean waved his pistol threateningly. “You got no room to be passin’ judgment, Punky Brewster.”

Josie ignored the outburst. “Then they gave me those fake names…”

“So you’re the fan,” Dean piped up, obviously impressed. “Pretty cool for an old broad.” Because of course he had to make up for his earlier lapse of machismo with some spectacularly bad behavior.

“Boy, I oughtta shoot you now just on principle,” Josie pumped the shotgun for effect, taking aim at Dean instead of Sam. “If we let you walk outta here…an that’s a big IF… you stop by that jukebox in the corner on your way out.”

“Well, sweetheart, when you put it like that, I better not wait,” Dean grinned wickedly, the only one not showing signs of stress as he danced between the barrels of the loaded weapons.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice rose and fell, making his brother’s name a five syllable word. “Why don’t we just leave?” He felt an eye start to twitch annoyingly.

Instead, Dean proceeded to pose Sam like a mannequin, and when Sam had one gun trained on Josie and one arm pointed at the tall man, he placed his own gun in Sam’s empty hand.

“I didn’t forget about you, princess,” Dean moved around the scene and spoke into the ear of the smaller man before removing another gun from his ankle holster and walked over to the jukebox, keeping enough of an eye on the others to make sure there were no sudden moves.

The jukebox was an old Werlitzer with moving bubble trim backlit by pink and blue neon. A single glance showed him songs by AC/DC, Alice Cooper, Aerosmith, Blondie, Black Flag, Black Sabbath… “Ah, hell, Sammy, you gotta see this…”

“I’m a little pre-occupied,” Sam’s voice was strained.

On the wall surrounding the jukebox were photographs of Patti Smith, the Ramones, and…Led Zeppelin…autographed no less. There was a young woman in most of the photos, long auburn hair, flannel shirt tied around her waist, concert halls or the awning over the door to CBGB in the backgrounds, several photos signed for Josie. “Is this you?” Dean looked over his shoulder to the bartender. “You knew the Ramones? Sammy, she’s got autographs from Page and Plant and Bonham!”

“Bad time to start fangirling, Dean.”

Dean walked back over to the group, talking as he did. “Dad worked a case in New York ten years ago, remember that Sammy?”

Sam’s frustrated interjection of, “It’s Sam,” went unheeded by his brother.

“Can’t remember if it was a rugaru or a vengeful spirit.” Sam’s eyes widened in shock that Dean was letting references to the supernatural slip out in casual conversation. That was no mistake. Dean didn’t make mistakes like that. “Anyways. I snuck outta the hotel room while he was making the kill. Just had to go to CBGB’s. Didn’t know if I’d ever get the chance again, you know.”

“I remember. Dad came back early, wanted to pack up and hit the road fast, but you weren’t there.”

“You ratted me out, Sammy.”

“Sam. Didn’t have to, you’d been whining about CBGB for days, dude. Dad knew where to find you.”

“He did. Dragged my underage ass outta there and into the nearest alley where he wore me out.” He sighed. “Totally worth it, man.”

“Is there a point?” Turk asked, gun hand getting a little twitchy and a ribbon of sweat began to unravel down between his shoulder blades. It was the crazy ones you could never turn your back on.

“Nope.” Dean nodded to Josie, “Just a fan, ma’am. Really hope we can resolve our differences without messin’ up your bar and that freakin' amazing jukebox.”

“Why are you here?” Brett asked.

“Probably same reason you are, officer.” Dean tossed Brett’s wallet onto a table as the other man began to sputter and slap at his pockets before remembering the fire-power present in the room. “Just tryin’ to solve a murder. Couple of ‘em actually. Meredith was victim number three, right?”

“How do you know that?" Brett was instantly suspicious. "Press only had info on two: Meredith and that banker fellow.”

“How ‘bout I put my gun away and I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“What about him?” Brett jerked his chin towards Sam.

“You don’t want to see his, believe me.” Dean spread his hands about two feet apart. “Scary.”

That earned another multisyllable whine of his name from a red-faced Sam and another reference to Wade Wilson, this time from Turk.

“Look, killers don’t usually track down info about their victims after they’re dead, do they?” Dean finally attempted some reason. “Let’s talk. You think we’re the bad guys then I’ll let you shoot me, but even if he don’t act like he cares, that’d really piss off Sammy here.” Dean held up his hands, the small pistol hanging from a finger by the trigger guard. Slowly he set it on the table next to the wallet he’d lifted from Brett’s pocket. “We got a deal?”

The two black men looked to Josie and she gave a sharp nod of her head. The guns disappeared much more slowly than they’d come out, but within a minute everyone breathed easier at least somewhat more confident bloodshed could be avoided or at least postponed.

“Now, you mind tellin’ me and my friends who you fellas are and why you’re askin’ questions about Meredith?”

“I’m Sam. This is my brother Dean. We’re just tryin’ to help.”

“You’re not Feds. Not cops. What are you?” Brett asked. “Bounty hunters? If you know who’s responsible…”

“Cool your jets, red baron,” Dean snapped.

Brett double blinked. “That makes no sense!”

Sam shook his head, “Just go with it. It’s easier that way.”

“Hey, man, we’re just two guys from Lawrence, Kansas. Tryin’ to do right by our fellow citizens.” Dean paused and gave the cop a pointed look. “Y’all have figured out that all the victims are from…”

“Lawrence, Kansas, yeah.” Interest piqued, Brett took a seat across from Dean and motioned Turk to join them. Sam sat too and Josie came around the bar and pulled up a chair. “You friends of the family?”

“Sure, let’s go with that if it makes you feel better,” Dean grinned.

“How’d you find out about the first one?”

“Google,” Sam shrugged. “Pretty easy if you know what you’re looking for.”

“Three vics all from Kansas. Three apartments locked tight from the inside. Three pretty grisly murder scenes,” Dean ticked off the similarities.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Brett prompted.

“Three hearts that didn’t make it to the morgue.”

Brett shot out of his chair, knocking it back. “How do you know that? No one knows that! That detail wasn’t in any of the newspaper articles.”

“Some monster took Meredith’s heart?” Josie had seen a lot of blood and violence, but that one tidbit of information left her pale. Even Turk grimaced and looked sick.

“Relax, officer. I came by that intel the old fashioned way,” Dean assured his audience. “Kiss and tell with a hot little Sagittarius in the M.E.’s office.”

Brett wiped his mouth and took a breath to collect himself…and made a mental reminder to have the M.E.’s office put a muzzle on Amy the next time a big case rolled around. “Okay. Still not tellin’ me anything I don’t already know.”

Dean pulled a pen out of his suit, turned a cocktail napkin over and began to sketch. “In Meredith’s apartment, there was blood on the carpet. But it wasn’t your typical blood spatter. There were spots about the size of my fist. Seemed intentional. And when you connect the dots you get this…” He pushed the drawing towards the others. It was almost a _Z,_ but maybe a quarter turn to the right, with the parallel lines curved and an oval in the center of everything.

The others passed it around. “Before I ask how the hell you got access to a crime scene, I’m gonna ask what the hell I’m lookin’ at?”

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Sam replied before Dean made another incredibly insane insertion of his foot into his mouth. “Some local symbol maybe?”  
“You mean like for a band or a gang or somethin’?” the tall black man asked.

“You tell me. It’s nothing we’ve ever seen before.”

The three locals shook their heads.

“Was there something like it at the other crime scenes?”

A red blush darkened the young detective’s skin. “I don’t know.”

“Well, can you get us in there? Or go back to check?” There was a hint of desperation in Sam’s voice.

“I’m not the detective on the case. I knew Meredith from here at Josie’s. Yeah, I’m askin’ around and looking for clues, she lived in Hell’s Kitchen, she was one of us. But there’s a big difference between that and getting access to a murder scene with a potential serial killer involved. I just made detective a couple months ago. No one’s gonna let me near it. I wouldn’t even know who to ask.”

“That’s your mistake, man. You don’t ask, you just do it,” Dean advised with a wink.

“How’d you two get into Meredith’s apartment?” Turk asked as Brett rolled his eyes.

“Landlady let us in,” Dean smirked. He knew a shady character when he saw one, and he wasn’t gonna go passing tips to a crook or admitting to a cop that he and Sam had posed as representatives of the security company that had put the alarms in the dead girl's apartment.

“What about crime scene photos?” Sam asked. “Could you get copies?”

“Yeah. Maybe. That might be possible.” Brett rubbed his hands over his face. “You really think this symbol is a thing and not just some random drops of blood.”

“It’s something,” Dean had no doubt and Sam nodded, remembering how the EMF had lit up practically off the charts.

“I searched the usual. It’s nothing Hebrew, Celtic, Aramaic, Greek, Chinese, Japanese or Korean. Nothing that shows up in any of the Dead Sea Scrolls or Egyptian hieroglyphics. We’ve got some…experts…looking into it as well.” Sam caught the wide-eyed looks from the three civilians. “Um…Would you believe Google again? It’s all there if you know where to look.”

“How do you know where to look, Mr. I’m Just A Boy From Kansas?” Turk challenged the kid.

“This is what we do,” Dean explained. “If it’s freaky, creepy, and killin’ people, we’re on the job. This one just got personal.”

“You’re talking occult?” Josie asked.

“Sometimes,” Sam admitted while he stared at Dean with wide-eyes. They were rarely so open about what they did, of course, they’d never been caught so quickly, but then given the opportunity to explain. If nothing else, Dean was buying them time to figure out an escape. “Meredith ever express an interest in what’s on the other side of the looking glass?”

“No.”

“Ever complain about her apartment?” Dean questioned. “Noises? Shadows? Cold spots? Lights flashing?”

“Ghosts?” Josie wasn’t amused. “You’re saying a ghost killed Meredith?”

“No…Not yet. But…”

“But it’s a possibility,” Sam interrupted. He took a deep breath. “It’s never easy having this discussion with people who haven’t seen something themselves. Sometimes even if they’ve seen they don’t want to believe, and sometimes the monster really is just a plain old vanilla human.”

“Sick, twisted, white trash, inbred, hillbilly, cannibal human fuckers…”

“Dean,” Sam tried to redirect his brother from rehashing the tale of the Bender family.

“I believe in ghosts,” Josie declared, surprising everyone. “I’m just not believing a ghost killed Meredith.

“You believe in ghosts?” Brett echoed.

“Wipe that look offa your face, Brett Mahoney,” the bar matron warned. “My grandmother founded this place. Ran it for years. Gave birth to my Mom upstairs. Grandma Josie spent most of her life in that apartment. I’m named after her. Love the place as much as she did. She’s still here.”

“You’ve seen her?” Sam asked, flashing a worried look to Dean. All spirits turned vengeful over time.

“Seen lights where there shouldn’t be. Hear her walkin’ around. Can’t keep a bottle of Crown Royal on the shelf. Her first husband was a mean drunk with a hankerin’ for Crown Royal. Every bottle I’ve ever bought fell off the shelf and shattered. I just don’t buy it no more.”

Dean reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a small bundle which he carefully unwrapped. “You ever heard of EMF?”


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_Dean reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a small bundle which he carefully unwrapped. “You ever heard of EMF?”_  
**********

“EMF.” Turk looked thoughtful for a moment. “That’s electromagnetic frequency?” He caught the looks thrown at him by Brett and Josie. “I know some things,” he protested.

“You’re right,” Sam told him. “The paranormal, spiritual energy, like ghosts, poltergeists or demons…”

“Demons…” Brett repeated, obviously still skeptical. Sam knew he needed to move on the dog and pony show or he and Dean would be spending the night behind bars and nothing good would come of that.

“Anyway. They leave traces of that energy behind and it reads positive on an EMF meter.”

“So does a power line, I imagine.”

“Well, yeah, but…” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Ma’am, you got any high voltage lines running through your bar?”

“No.”

Still not convinced, the detective scoffed:  “I take it that’s an EMF meter? Looks like a walkman.”

In a past life,” Dean blushed. “I made it myself,” he mumbled, suddenly shy. “I work some as a mechanic.” 

“A home-made ghost detector?  Josie, are you really gonna…”

“Simmer down, Brett! I wanta see this.”

Sam took the small device from his brother who watched it go with a pained expression. He tensed even more when Sam handed it to Josie, showing her how to turn it on without actually doing so. “Take this and start someplace away from anywhere you ever think you’ve noticed your grandmother’s presence. Turn it on when you get there and slowly walk to an area you’re confident she’s been…behind the bar, maybe. The louder the noise, the more it lights up and the needle moves into the red, means there’s more EMF.”

“This doesn’t prove anything,” Brett complained.

He was shushed by both Turk and Josie. The older woman walked over to the jukebox. “This was put in after she died when the old one gave out.” She clicked on the meter which gave a scratchy whine as the needle fluttered and only two lights flickered. Step by step, as she moved closer to the bar, the whining intensified, more lights flashed and the needle moved towards the red.

“How are you doing that?” Brett demanded his eyes not leaving Dean’s face, his fists clenched on the table, jaw nearly locked with tension and posture rigid.

“We’re not…she is,” Sam’s eyes went wide.

“That’s a first,” Dean whispered.  A misty haze had appeared and gradually formed itself into the shape of a woman in a slim skirt, hair piled high on her head, blouse open a tad too far, large pearls that were obviously fake, and a skin tight cardigan with the letter “J” on the front.  “It’s badass June Cleaver,” Dean commented and Turk held back a snort only because he was half afraid he might piss his pants. He’d never given ghosts much thought, but he wasn’t the confident doubter that Mahoney was… he’d seen things. Still, he wasn’t quite certain whether having Mahoney proven wrong such a good thing. He was torn between watching the ghost of grandma past and watching the crazy kid unscrew the lid on a salt shaker and pour the contents into his hand.

“What do I do?” Josie stage-whispered.

“Was there a connection between this place or your grandmother and any of the victim’s besides Meredith?” Sam asked gently.

“No.”

“Ghosts are usually tied to a place. It’s highly unlikely that this is what hurt Meredith.” Both the ghost and her granddaughter gave him an evil look for that thought and the temperature dropped low enough that everyone was blowing out puffs of steam.

“Sammy,” Dean sing-songed, “don’t piss off the nice lady ghost.”

“Sorry,” to Dean. “Sorry,” to the two generations of barkeeps present in the room. “I think she wanted you to see her. She knew you were looking. It’s hard for ghosts to manifest this kind of energy.”

The women slowly looked away from him and back towards each other, the image of Josie’s namesake growing fainter, but still, she leaned forward and kissed her granddaughter’s forehead before fading away. “Is she… Is she gone,” Josie’s voice was rough, and every man there knew better than to look her way until she had wiped her eyes.

“It takes a lot of energy for a ghost to even care about the real world, much less interact with it, and to appear like that… She probably couldn’t hold it for long, but she’s still here.”

Josie nodded and came back to the table, handing the EMF meter back to Dean and squeezing his shoulder. “Thank you.”

The young man looked more terrified of her gratitude that he had at any moment thus far that afternoon. “We didn’t make anything happen. She didn’t do that for us.”

She squeezed a fraction harder, a second longer, and then sat back down. “So…” She clapped her hands together and the sharp sound got everyone blinking and moving again, Brett shuddering like he was shaking off a bad dream. “You were in Meredith’s apartment. I take it you had that contraption with you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean was quick to respond, and without a trace of mockery.

“The readings were high,” Sam informed the group. “Not like this in here. Nothing appeared. No cold spots. Just residual energy, but for the thing to be gone and still give off readings that high… It was powerful.”  Sam gave Josie an apologetic smile to soften his next words:  “The missing hearts… The damage to the…uh..bodies...  At first we thought werewolf or some kind of shifter…”

“You’re serious,” Brett looked sick, but no longer quite as doubtful.

“The lunar cycle isn’t right for a rogue werewolf. And weres and shifters don’t trigger EMF’s like that. They also usually leave some kind of trace: fur, claws or at least claw marks, tracks of some kind. There’d be more damage to the surroundings.”

“And,” Dean interjected. “They gotta come in and out just like any normal living thing. The girl’s apartment was sealed tight. Landlady said the alarm was still set and the chain was latched from the inside.”

“Windows?” Turk suggested.

Dean shook his head, “Locked. Nothing broken. And there were no footprints of any kind…all that blood, no way the killer was clean. Freak had her heart with him when he left, but no tracks and no witnesses. No evidence that he cleaned up in the bathroom.”

“A poltergeist can kill, but not usually like this. They’re also tied to one place, like ghosts. They were ghosts once,” Sam contributed.

“And poltergeists don’t take souvenirs,” Dean added. He looked to Sam before he spoke again, and his brother nodded agreement. “We’re thinking demon.”

“You’re serious?” Brett lowered his hands from his face to ask. “And you two believe them?” he demanded. “We’ve gone from ghosts to werewolves to demons, and you guys are just happy to go along for the ride?”

“I get it.” Surprisingly, it was the older brother trying to reassure him. “Most people are lucky enough to spend an entire lifetime thinkin’ all the things that go bump in the night are fantasies and fairy tales. Most of us who are in the know, came by that knowledge the hard way. Some of us fight back.”

“There’s more of you crazies out there?”

“We’re called hunters.”

The cop pushed himself away from the table and stood up. “I’ve seen this movie before.”

“Brett!” Josie left her seat and walked towards the agitated officer, motioning for Turk to join her. “You boys sit tight for a moment and let us talk,” she instructed the brothers as she and the two black men moved back into the shadows at the back of the bar.

Dean avoided any lecture from Sam by going back to the jukebox to examine the selections and the photographs once more. He could also keep an eye on the others better from that position. If the cop slipped out the back door, he and Sam were booking it out the front and laying low.  He and Sam hadn’t really decided that they were dealing with a demon before they entered Josie’s bar, but somewhere in the midst of explaining the supernatural to three civilians, they’d convinced themselves that that’s what they were looking at…that or something neither they nor their father had ever encountered before. Dad.  He would never have allowed the little supernatural lecture.  He would never have let himself get caught or ask civilians to help.  Hell, he didn't even want Sam or Dean's help. The connection to Lawrence, Kansas on this case… Was it coincidence? Or was it their demon? The one that had killed Mom and got them started in this crazy life.  If it was, he'd never forgive Dean for not calling, but if it wasn't he'd be pissed at the distraction.

 Dean glanced at his little brother who had his phone flipped open and was rapidly texting. Texting was still a novelty for Dean, and frankly he didn’t see the point. It wasn’t quick, not even for his lightning fingered brother, unless you used shorthand, which Dean didn’t know. It was easier to call in favors, and harder for someone to say no to his face…or ear…than it was to simply ignore a text or shoot off some incomprehensible alphabet soup of an answer. His own phone began to ring as he was fishing in his pocket for quarters for the jukebox. Hah! Point taken: one said favor was being returned. Dean joined Sam back at the table as he flipped open the phone and answered the call. “Caleb! Whatcha got, man?”  Sam placed a pen into his brother’s flapping hand while Dean pawed at another napkin. He began taking notes as soon as the pen touched his fingers, muttering the occasional “uh-huh”, three “shits” and one “fuck” before asking the ultimate mother of all questions: “How do we kill it?” Sam could tell by his brother’s expression that the answer wasn’t good. “You mind repeatin’ all that for Sammy, man?” He listened to the reply before nodding. “Thanks, Caleb. I owe you if we get outta this one. I’ll have Sam hit the library tomorrow and look for that banishment hymn, but if you come across it first, I can’t tell you how grateful we’d be.” He listened again, nodded again, his handsome face creasing with a frown and his lips thinning into a slash across his face. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll call Dad for help.” No, he wouldn’t. If the man couldn’t pick up a phone when Dean was electrocuted and told he only had a few weeks to live, then why would he care if his boys were tackling a daeva, an ancient Zoroastrian demon. There was only one demon their dad cared about. If this wasn’t the yellow-eyed monster that slaughtered Mary Winchester twenty-one years ago, and it wasn’t, then Dean wasn’t going to make that phone call. He wiped a hand across his eyes to press away the sudden sting before it resulted in...you know..eye sweat.  

Sam had been pissed at Dad for ignoring his distress call when Dean was so broken Sam had to smuggle him out of the hospital.  For once their hasty departure wasn't due to medical billing finally alerting on the fake insurance.  He could have used a hug, or at least a damned text message saying, _Nice knowing you, kid._ But instead, he’d defended the man against Sam’s accusations, made excuses for him and tried not to feel as pathetic as Sam said he was.

_Goddamn. Man up, Winchester._   Dean gave himself a mental kick in the seat of his pants. He was on a case. He’d lived…even though someone else had died in his place… Sometimes Dean didn’t feel any different than the monsters he hunted. Even when he didn’t mean to, he hurt people and dragged them down. If he could have given away the second chance he’d been given… There were so many other people, good people, smart people, innocent people…so many people more deserving than him. That girl who missed out on her chance because the faith healer had chosen Dean... Leah? Leia? Layla!  She had deserved it. He’d promised to pray for her… As if anybody out there was listening.

He jerked as Sam’s voice finally broke through his internal monologue. He gave his face a quick scrub with his hands before turning to his brother. “You get the details from, Caleb.”

“Yeah.” Sam cast a glance to the cluster of shadows in the back.

“Do we tell them?”

Dean shrugged. “May as well. According to Caleb, someone’s controlling this thing. Chances are, whoever it is was in this bar the night Meredith died.” When Sam nodded, Dean raised his head and tossed a shout to the other three, “Guys. We’ve got a lead.”

They wrapped their conversation up quickly and came back to the table, the young detective clearly under pressure from his elders. “A lead?” The older man asked.

Dean nodded. “A friend was able to track down the symbol. It’s a sigil meant to contain or control daeva.”

“Care to put that in English? ‘Cuz I know you ain’t talkin’ about no Celine Dion.”

Sam interjected with the explanation, because that was his thing. He was smarter than Dean. Better at explaining things. Better at talking to people. He didn’t trust Dean not to fuck it up.  
Shit. An hour ago Dean wouldn’t have thought twice about his nerdy brother lecturing three civilians on the finer details of the Zoroastrian pantheon of demons. He’d have been grateful that Sam had stepped in. He just wanted to get drunk.  What the hell was he doin’ in a bar without a fucking drink in his hand?

“Dean!” One syllable. Short and sharp like a prison shank. Once he had his brother’s attention, Sam continued his explanation. “Daeva are vicious. They’re the rabid pit bulls of the supernatural world and someone has this one on a leash.” 

“What does it look like? Something like that, surely someone’s seen something?”

“No one knows. They’re demons of darkness, shadows. The lore says they only attack at night and retreat when the sun rises.”

“And the one casting the spell? What do they look like?” Josie recovered from her horror enough to ask.

“You. Me. It could be anyone. They’d need tools for the summoning most likely. Candles. Ceremonial vessels. Certain herbs.”

“But you think they were here?” She may be tough, but the thought of someone like that in _her_ bar, preying on her friends… Josie swallowed back the sour taste of bile and clenched her fists at the same time.

“Yeah. I do.”

Dean watched the older woman in the ripped flannel with the rocker’s soul and bartender’s soft heart begin to shake, looking around her own establishment as if she had been betrayed. He may have only been nearly four when his world fell apart, but he remembered that feeling when you realized the four walls and ceiling you called home hadn’t kept you safe, hadn’t stopped the enemy at the door and sounded an alarm. What is there to say? “Salt,” he said.

“Beg pardon?” Josie glanced at the young man who had been so silent for the last hour she’d almost forgotten his earlier insane theatrics.

“Line your doors and windows with salt. Demons, ghosts… a lot of supernatural things don’t like salt. They won’t cross over the line.” He bit his lower lip while he thought a moment. “Most don’t like iron either.”

“It’s a bar, stupid,” Brett snapped. “Even if a pile of salt was worth a damn against something big, bad and blood-thirsty, it’d be gone after the first customers crossed over the threshold.” He felt a warm glow of triumph as he watched the smart-ass kid turn bright red and curl his shoulders inward. The feeling of victory was cut short by the whack to the back of his head.

Josie shook the sting out of her palm as she glared at the cop who was pouting with his arms folded over his chest and a stubborn expression on his face. 

“I’ve never tried it,” Dean said, his face still flaming, but at the sight of the condescending cop getting taken down a notch, he couldn't help but smile.  He might even have stuck his tongue out if Josie hadn't been watching. “...but you could probably mix salt and maybe some iron shavings too into paint.  Then you could paint the door jam and the windowsills.” He met Josie’s eyes briefly, expecting to see anger or impatience. He didn’t know what to make of eyes wide with encouragement and maybe a little too much understanding. He lowered his gaze again, long lashes fanning over cheeks dusted with freckles.

At Dean’s almost timid voice, the bar-owner realized again just how young these strange boys were. When bright green eyes, slightly too big for the boy’s delicate features, met hers, all her motherly instincts kicked in to overdrive. And when he'd lowered his eyes again, she nearly had the wind knocked out of her. He was pretty in a way young men his age and size rarely were. He hid the softness well, behind a day’s growth of ginger-colored stubble, a gruff voice that she’d heard lapse too many times not to realize it was fake, a bad-boy demeanor, and six-feet of well muscled frame. Damn. That kid was trouble in too many ways.

“I can get the stuff and do it for you…tomorrow,” he added quickly, anticipating another slur for forgetting that bar patrons wouldn’t want to get wet paint on their clothes or shoes.

“I’d appreciate that…”Josie had to bite off her words before she added some term of endearment at the end, but the intent was clearly there. Turk caught it and gave a groan even as he grinned. “You got somethin’ to say, Turk Barrett?” she leveled him with a steely gaze, all hints of gooey marshmallow fluff feelings gone.

“You gone and got yourself another couple strays.”

“It’s good for business,” she huffed.

Turk chuckled again before spreading his arms wide, “So here’s the plan: Brett here has a shift he’s already late for…”

“What? Damnit, you asshole! Why didn’t you tell me?” The cop continued to curse as he ran out of the bar, leaving his friends snickering to themselves.

Dean arched an eyebrow in the wake of his departure. “Is he good?” His meaning wasn’t lost.

“He’s fine. Brett Mahoney's 'bout the only cop I’d go to if I really was in trouble. He’s just protective of his friends.  Josie here is a friend. Meredith was a friend. Anybody messes with his friends’s gonna be in big trouble. I feel the same way.” He stretched and sat back in such a way the brothers could clearly see his hand cannon of a weapon…just in case they had forgotten about it.

“Understood,” the older brother gave a solemn nod.

Turk continued with a grin. “He’s gonna get his hands on copies of those crime scene photos and case notes on the other murders. He’ll be back here after his shift. Probably around midnight. I got other connections. I’ll see what I can find out. Couple stores around sell that witch-y stuff. I’ll check them out. Me and Josie will watch and listen now that we know what’s what. You boys come back tonight. Have a beer or two. See if anyone catches your attention. I’ll be back around the time Brett gets here.”

The brothers nodded.

“And ditch the cheap cop suits,” he grinned.

“Amen,” Dean echoed, already pulling at his tie. He glanced at the pool tables in the back and glanced at Josie then at the billiards again. “Um…is there a rule against makin’ some friendly wagers tonight?”

“You plannin’ on hustlin’ my customers, sweetness?” Her eyes pinned him to the spot like a butterfly in a specimen case.

Dean blushed again, but answered honestly. “Huntin’s not exactly a paying job.” And what with parking fees, a New York City motel room (even a crappy one), and those overalls they’d purchased to pose as employees of the alarm company in order to get into Meredith’s apartment: their credit cards were nearly maxed out.  Not that they’d be paying that bill anyway as the card was in the name of Statler N. Waldorf (Dean may have been watching a rerun of The Muppet Show when he was filling out that application).  Sam left the illegal scams to Dean, and Dean didn’t mind.  He’d done a lot worse to earn a few dollars, and, really, if he was ever caught, the credit card fraud would be the least of his worries.  Even so, he applied his own ethics to his credit card ventures, only using the fake cards for expenses actually relating to a hunt.  In Dean’s opinion no one was really getting hurt, though Sam had tried to explain the details of why that wasn’t true in the grand economic scheme of things.  Dean had yawned through that lecture and turned up the radio.  Sometimes between cases Dean would find work with a mechanic wherever they happened to be.  Driving up in a purring 1967 Impala, glowing like she’d just left the showroom floor, was a good enough resume’ if he was lucky enough to find someone who needed the extra help and paid in cash.  Since picking Sam up, however, they had moved constantly from one hunt to the next, and it was unlikely they'd be hanging around New York long enough for Dean to get a job.

Josie wasn’t letting the young man off the hook yet. “There’s only one rule in this establishment,” she raised her index finger to emphasize her point. “And you,” the finger now aimed itself directly at Dean’s chest, “already broke it.” She widened her stance, placing her hands on her hips. “I don’t tolerate violence in my bar. No fights, no guns drawn, no knives, no blood. You take that shit outside with everyone else from now on. Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” And damned if Josie didn’t believe he was. He made a small sound like he was clearing his throat and an impish smirk crossed his face, “In my defense, ma’am, he moved first.” Dean gestured to the man beside her.

“Turk Barrett,” the intimidating black man thrust out his hand. “I didn’t catch your names… Your real ones.”

“Sam,” the taller of the two brothers took the offered hand. “And Dean,” he pointed to his sibling. There was a pause that was just a half-second too long. “Campbell,” he finished. “Sam and Dean Campbell.”  



	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

     In spite of the few hours spent at a local library researching the Zoroastrian religion, by the time the brothers returned to the bar that evening, Dean’s mood had brightened, buoyed by a sentimental trip to CBGB and a hotdog purchased from every street vendor he passed.  In spite of the no-smoking laws, inside Josie’s a faint haze of cigarette smoke surrounded the lights like clouds hiding the sun, Motorhead’s _Rock and Roll_ blasted from the jukebox, and most tables were filled.  With his birds’eye view of the room, Sam spotted Josie behind the bar and strode across the floor to her, Dean trailing in his wake, letting his big little brother part the crowd.  Josie gave the younger brother a wide smile as she saw him approaching and his hazel eyes lit up when he knew he was recognized as a familiar and welcome face.  He hadn’t had that feeling since leaving Palo Alto. 

     As they reached the bar, Dean moved to stand beside Sam, winking at Josie and ordering a whiskey.  She pulled them both local brews from the tap.  “You’re supposed to be workin’, angelface,” she chided the older brother as he frowned.

     As if the two monster-slaying waifs didn’t already tug on her heartstrings, the boys were dressed in clothing similar to her own.  She’d expected the handsome duo to dress like the other twinks and twenty-something college-students who occasionally made their way into Josie’s for a walk on the wild side: dark jeans, dark button downs with the contrasting cuffs turned up and locked into place with cufflinks, blazers, and brogues buffed to a high shine.  Her boys…damn, she did have it bad…were each wearing multiple flannels, so well worn the details of the plaid had faded and the fabric was now something soft, marled and monochromatic.  Their jeans were frayed and pale from repeated washings.  Sam wore a canvas jacket and Dean a leather one, similar to the one Turk had been wearing earlier in the day, and made for a much bigger man, making Dean look smaller and younger than he was.  The older brother also had some type of amulet around his neck, a horned head that Josie didn’t want to examine too closely for fear it would lead to another supernatural discovery, another thing to fear when she turned out the lights.

     The frown lines on Dean’s smooth face became deeper as he took a swallow of the beer, but he smacked his lips together in an almost obscene fashion and gave her a thumbs up.  She stopped him when he pulled out his wallet.  “You’re givin’ this place a paint job tomorrow, remember?”

     She received her first genuine smile from the young man.  It was an instant addiction.

     She tended to a few other customers before returning to the pair, noticing that Dean was now engaged in deep conversation with her part-time help at the bar, a lovely young brunette named Lydia.  There was a generous pour of whiskey in the shot glass he held which he drained smoothly and which Lydia promptly refilled at his urging.  Even though he paid for the drink and tipped generously, Josie wasn’t happy to see him going through hard liquor like it was Kool-Aid.  It wasn’t just the Mama Bear in her wanting to protect the boy from himself, it was the bartender and business owner who wanted to avoid a bad situation.  She was certain the mouthy kid was likely armed and planning to hustle pool all the while hunting for a murderous demon and its master.  Nothing good was going to come from the addition of too much alcohol to the mix.  Sometimes she wondered how this was her life:  mob bosses, mercenaries, mutants and now monsters.

     Josie spotted a trio of regulars entering the bar and gave a sigh of relief.  The two attorneys and their secretary made an appearance most weeknights.  They’d attended and sent flowers to the memorial service for Meredith, helped her family with any legal matters that arose, and were fairly competent sleuths themselves, having successfully taken on a corrupt police force and a criminal mastermind named Wilson Fisk who had publicly posed as politician focused on reform while privately he had collaborated with the Yakuza, the Russians and the Chinese in the trafficking of women, children and heroin, and driven long-time residents of Hell’s Kitchen out of their homes to make way for land sharks to buy up city blocks.  These three weren’t much older than Dean Campbell and, yeah, she’d kind of adopted them too over time, especially Matt. 

     She’d known Matt’s father; everyone in Hell’s Kitchen knew “Battling” Jack Murdock, the boxer.  He was a likeable man, trustworthy everywhere but in the boxing ring at Fogwell’s.  Locals knew better than to bet on the fights, least they did when they were sober, knowing the outcome was determined by the bookies and the sponsors and not the talent of the fighters.  The boxers did as they were told if they wanted to earn a share of the pot and a future fight.  Like everyone else in The Kitchen, she’d heard when Matt’s mother, Maggie, lost her mind, tried to hurt her baby and then vanished, leaving Jack to struggle with raising the boy by himself.  For all Jack’s faults, no one questioned that he had done a good job with the boy, especially when the kid rescued one of his elderly neighbors, pushing the man out of the path of a moving vehicle.  Unfortunately, in the accident that followed, the boy’s eyes were exposed to chemicals and he lost his sight.  An outsider would have thought there’d be a big insurance settlement to help Jack take care of his son, but that wasn’t the way life worked in their part of town.  The whole system was rigged, just like the boxing matches.  It was considered enough for the owner of the chemicals (which had probably been on their way to be illegally dumped in the Hudson River), to pay for the boy to be sent away to a school for the blind for six months, to learn Braille and ways to take care of himself.  It wasn’t much more than a year after Matt came home that Jack was killed after winning the fight of a lifetime, a fight everyone knew he was supposed to lose.  The boy bounced between foster homes and orphanages until he left for college.  Now he was a lawyer, back in Hell’s Kitchen to defend the little guys and the struggling families, giving them the chance he and his Dad never had.  Yeah, Josie had a soft spot for the young man, and his idealistic best friend and law partner Foggy Nelson, another local boy who’d made them proud.  And in spite of making it big, they spurned the upper class martini bars and walked into her little shithole every night…yep, they were good people. 

     It had been harder for their secretary, Karen Page, to win the bar owner over.  Karen wasn’t a local, she was a newcomer to The Kitchen.  Josie had observed both the young lawyers subtly fighting for the girl’s affections.  She couldn’t help but worry what the rivalry might do to their friendship, but that wasn’t the girl’s fault, and she seemed to reluctant to choose.  Matt was handsome and with all the tragedy in his life, Josie had observed that ladies just wanted to take him home and mother him.  What Foggy lacked in stereotypical sex appeal he made up for with intelligence, wit, humor and fierce loyalty.  They were both good men.  It was a difficult decision, and one Karen had thus far chosen to avoid.  That had earned her Josie’s respect.

     She really should introduce the brothers to the members of Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law.  She saw them across the barroom, Dean grinning devilishly as he displayed a napkin for his brother’s examination, likely revealing Lydia’s phone number if the younger brother’s put out expression was any indication.  Josie caught Sam’s eye and waved them over.  Sam looked relieved for the interruption.

     She greeted the three friends as the brothers approached.  “Got some new people I want you to meet.  They came to town to help catch whatever killed Meredith.”

     Matt frowned at the use of the word “whatever”.  He wasn’t the only one who found it odd.

     “Whatever?  You mean whoever?” Karen smiled uncertainly.

     “Maybe both.”

     “Well that’s not cryptic as hell,” Foggy’s lips puckered in curiosity as he tried to decipher Josie’s words.

     The brothers arrived, standing at the opposite end of the table from Josie.  “Sam, Dean, I’d like you to meet Karen Page, Foggy Nelson, and Matt Murdock.  Foggy and Matt are local attorneys and Karen works with them.  Sam and Dean Campbell are brothers.  They’re from Lawrence, Kansas.  Knew Meredith from back home.”

     Matt worried.  He worried a lot in general (Foggy already teased him about the permanent wrinkle that had already formed towards the inside of his left eyebrow, caused no doubt from frowning so much).  Worry, though, was the downside of knowing when people were lying.  It wasn’t just the two brothers who’d failed Matt’s internal lie detector, however.  Josie had lied as well.  Was she in trouble?  Were these guys con artists?  Surely Josie had been around the block long enough to be wise to any scams, right?  Or, worse yet, were these two involved with the murder themselves?

     “Relatives of yours, Josie?” Foggy asked, staring at the trio of flannel bedecked roughnecks and the comfortable way Josie kept an arm around the back of each young man though the shorter one was squirming at being held in place.  Even that made the scene seem more maternal.

     “Nope, just met these boys today," she enjoyed the shocked expressions of her long time customers.  "Dimples here is Sammy, and Freckles is Dean.”

     The tall one made a pissy face Foggy swore he had witnessed earlier in the day from a prudish octogenarian at a probate hearing.  “Sam, Josie.  Bad enough I can’t make Dean stop calling me Sammy.”

     “That's Bitchface #20, Sammy.  And I don’t have freckles,” Dean’s face reddened, making the freckles on his cheeks stand out even more.

     Matt and Foggy had grown up in the neighborhood, they knew you didn’t walk into Hell’s Kitchen and make friends in a day, and Josie certainly wasn’t one to fall for a pretty face.  Something was going on.  Karen knew it too, she was just now starting to feel accepted after more than a year of near daily visits to Josie’s establishment.

     Matt held out his hand as pleasantries were exchanged, leaving it hanging in the air as the brothers first turned their attention to Karen.  Matt didn’t need working eyes to know that Karen was pretty, she’d let him touch her face and he knew the symmetry of her delicate features.  If he’d needed a second opinion, he’d heard Foggy gush about her attractiveness more than once.  For awhile it had practically been an everyday occurrence.  So he knew she had strawberry blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin, long legs and curves in all the right places.  He’d had his eyes long enough to be able to put a picture to the description his friend provided.  And, of course, he’d heard enough men flirt with her to know Foggy’s opinion wasn’t unique.  Therefore, he wasn’t prepared to hear her addressed as “Ma’am” and had to hold back a laugh in spite of his misgivings about Josie’s new acquaintances.  Karen kicked him from under the table, but that just made his grin wider.  At the same time, he heard a voice from on high moan out, “Dee-een.”

     “What?” came the response.  “She’s a lady.  That’s how you talk to ladies, Sammy,” the other brother hissed in a low whisper.  The words slid over Matt’s skin, the rough edges catching on his nerve endings like sandpaper caressing silk and causing a shudder to travel down his spine.  Matt felt the temperature of the air rise slightly as the one…Dean…began to blush again, and his heart rate picked up speed.  Huh, the guy’s genuine embarrassment took Matt by surprise.  

     “Yeah…old ladies,” Sam snapped.  Jesus, how tall was that guy?  The voice was more than a foot over Matt’s head and they were seated at one of the high tables.

     Dean was silent as Foggy was introduced, his blush taking a long time to fade.

     Then it was Matt’s turn.  His hand was engulfed by one that was much larger.  Okay, that was Sam’s.  Damn.  He wasn’t just tall, he was solid…and…still growing?  The man’s coat sleeve exposed nearly two inches of his wrist, and, even though the kid had muscle, there was a lankiness Matt could infer by muscle tone and bone structure that suggested in another year or so Sam would be a physical force to be reckoned with.  The too small canvas jacket with the tattered cuffs, inexpensive after shave, and underlying smell of road, diner grease and strong coffee allowed Matt to make an informed guess that the brothers were nomads barely making ends meet.

     Time to play truth or gotcha.  Matt kept a hold on Sam’s hand, a single fingertip on the young man’s pulse.  “You attending college here, Sam?”

     “No.  I’m in my last year at Stanford.  Family emergency came up and I’m taking this semester off, but I’m hoping I can get back in time to enroll in summer courses.  They’re holding my scholarship for me.”  There was a beat.  Then another.  Sam tensed, then the words came out in a too fast gush of excitement.  “I really hope to start law school in the fall.  I aced the LSAT, but I missed my scholarship interview due to…”  He didn’t share the reason, but skipped to the next thought.  “The dean of the law school told me I could reschedule.  They’re still interested.  I’ve got so many questions for you guys…”

      Matt nearly cringed as he let Sam’s hand slide free of his own.  Not because of Sam, the kids’ pulse had held steady through that unexpected response.  He kept waiting for the flutter in Sam’s heartbeat, positive the story was full of lies and doubting his own abilities when he never detected a deception.  Shock was quickly followed by disgust.  He was pissed at himself for his own assumptions.  Hell, he was an orphan from Hell’s Kitchen who’d studied his ass off and earned his way into Columbia University and Harvard Law School carrying with him little more than the clothes on his back.  If he could do it, why couldn’t Sam Campbell.

     Dean had stopped breathing.  He knew Sam wanted go home; home being Stanford now and not with Dean.  He knew it, but every time he actually had to hear about it and hear that longing in Sam’s voice to be somewhere else, somewhere Dean wasn’t allowed to follow…  He thought of the murder victims and wondered if this was how they felt when they were unmade, heart torn out of their chests and bodies shredded to become merely blood, bone and pieces of meat.  He didn’t bother shaking hands with the freak wearing sunglasses indoors…at night.  Pretentious.  Douche bag.  Fucking lawyer.  He mumbled something and abruptly moved towards the back of the bar.  Towards the pool tables.  Hoping to find a sucker or two with deep pockets since they needed the money, though he’d settle for a fight.  He had that itch under his skin now.  For pain.  His own or someone else’s, he wasn’t going to be picky.  But maybe…his tongue dragged over his lips…maybe he could find someone willing to slip out into the alley for a rough fuck.  Not a girl.  Dean wanted teeth and bruises.  He wanted to feel the scrape of bricks as he was shoved against a wall and fucked raw, jaw aching as he held back his screams.  If he was real lucky, maybe they’d even toss some money at him when they were through.  _See Sammy, I got hopes too._  

     Dean paid little attention to the girl he bumped into on his way to the shadows, but her glare followed him closely.  Her fingers massaged the locket she wore around her neck before slipping it back into her blouse, shaking her short blond hair into place, and strolling up to the bar.  Matt wrinkled his nose, temporarily distracted from the conversation by a whiff of rotten eggs.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

       Josie wandered back to tend bar, leaving Matt, Foggy and Karen to watch over the younger brother.  Sam Campbell was very…curious…persistent … earnest…  Matt tried to come up with the proper adjective for the young man who asked so many questions:  where had they gone to school, what type of law did they practice, how did they compare hanging up their own shingle to working in a big firm, were John Grisham books anything like real life, insurance…  Seriously, they’re sitting in a bar with alcohol and women looking for a hot young stud for a one night stand, and this kid wanted to discuss malpractice insurance?  Was he even human?

       Even more frustrating was how the young man smoothly rebuffed, deflected, or flat out lied about everything not related to his time at Stanford.  As a lawyer, Matt had to appreciate the skill set even if he did so grudgingly under the circumstances.  Still, he was no closer to unraveling the truth or learning how the brothers had won over the tough-as-nails bartender.

       Part-way through a scintillating discussion comparing felony statutes of limitation from state to state…and yeah, Matt had found it slightly disconcerting that the twenty-one year old had actually committed to memory the time frame under which each state required prison-eligible crimes to be brought against a person or lapse...Sam stopped mid-sentence.  “Excuse me.”  And with that he was gone.

       Foggy groaned once the boy was out of ear-shot.  “Can we bill for any of that?  I felt like I was re-living the bar exam, and it wasn’t any better the second time around.”

       Karen laughed, “He reminded me of you, actually, Foggy, haircut and all.”

       “Oh God, no,” Matt gasped in fake horror.  The smile slowly faded.  “What’s he doing?”

       “Talking to a girl.  Looks like they know each other.”  Foggy observed Sam tap a girl with short blond hair on the shoulder and heard her pleased exclamation of “Sam!”

       “The brother?”

       “He’s never come out of the back.  Josie might need to send a search party for him before it’s too late.  That one was too drunk and too pretty to last long back there.”  He was surprised to see Matt perk up at the news.  He’d only noticed because he’d known Matt for years, and if he hadn’t known that his best friend had experimented with a guy (or two or three) over the years he would have discounted it entirely.  Even now he didn’t say anything: a flash of curiosity wasn’t enough to jump to conclusions.

       “Get Josie over here before you send her after the lost sheep,” Matt advised in a hushed voice.  “Something’s not right about those two.  They’re lying to her.”

       “I know,” Foggy and Karen replied in unison.

       “You know?”

       “Meredith was adopted,” Karen said plainly.

       “She was born in Lawrence, Kansas, but she never lived there.  Her family was from Philadelphia,” Foggy added.

       “How did you know?” Karen asked her blind friend.

       “Yeah, Matt, care to share?”  Okay, that was maybe a bit cruel, but Foggy still didn’t like Matt digging in people’s heads.  And, maybe he wasn’t digging, and maybe it wasn’t mind reading, but it still felt wrong.

       Matt avoided the question, taking a cue from Sam Winchester’s play book.  “But why would Josie lie about that?  She knows Meredith is from Philly, and she knows we know.”

       “Maybe she did it so that we would know that she knows, and know that she knows we know, but they don’t know that we and she know and she wants to keep it that way,” Foggy opined.

       “But why?” Karen persisted.

       “Ah hell, I don’t know,” he gave up.  “I can’t even tell you what I just said.  Let’s just ask Josie herself.”

       “Ask me what?”  Josie asked, appearing at his arm.

       “Who are the Campbells, really?” Karen asked.

       Josie chuckled softly and shook her head, “I hope I don’t have to tell you and you probably wouldn’t believe me if I did, but I really believe they’re here to help find Meredith’s killer.”

       “Who are they then?  If they’re not family or friends of the family?”  The blond attorney ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back from his face.  “We want to find the killer too, Josie, but those kids are too young to be cops.  That makes them vigilantes or thrill seekers or both.  I don’t want anyone thinking they have a license to kill,” Foggy ignored Matt’s flinch, “or, worse, I don’t want two kids you’re obviously kinda soft on becoming victims three and four of this maniac.”  Sam Winchester had nothing on Foggy’s earnestness, Karen decided with a warm smile at her friend.

       “Victims four and five,” Josie corrected.  “Those two boys knew there had been a murder kept out of the press, the first one.  Brett confirmed it.  Their theory of the case has got Brett wantin’ to toss ‘em in the psych ward for a seventy-two hour evaluation, but they’ve given him some leads to check up on.  He and Turk are meeting the Campbells here at midnight for everyone to compare notes.”

       “Turk’s in on this too?”  Matt shook his head.  Turk could be useful, he had connections and he could scrounge up information, but he wasn’t especially trustworthy.  His thoughts took a sudden turn as he raised his chin, eyes, if they worked, would have been focused on the back of the bar where within moments, the others could also hear the sounds of irate voices.

       “Damn!” Josie stalked towards the commotion which now had the attention of everyone in the bar except a few of the more intoxicated co-eds making out in dark corners.  Foggy noticed Sam Campbell and the little blond tucked away into one such corner and was relieved to see the human beanstalk was in fact warm-blooded.

       Josie policed her own bar and everyone knew better than to give the woman trouble, not only was she tough in her own right, but between Brett, Turk, the vigilante known as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and her faithful regulars, anyone causing trouble would find themselves very sorry if they didn’t heed Josie’s warning to simmer down or leave.

       Considering some of the shady characters who occasionally worked the shadows and the pool tables in the back of Josie’s place, Karen and Foggy were unprepared when Josie emerged from the fray dragging one Dean Campbell by the ear.  “The lost sheep?” Matt asked out of force of habit.  He already knew.

       “Yeah.  She’s got him by the ear.  Looks like we get to babysit this one for awhile too,” Foggy’s voice shot up half an octave as he complained.  “Did we forget to pay our tab last night?  I feel like I’m being punished.”

       Sure enough, Josie deposited Dean into the chair beside Matt before she let go of his ear which the young man began to rub vigorously.  Foggy didn’t blame him, it was still vaguely purple from the amount of pressure the bar owner had been applying.  “Boy, what did I tell you was the one rule of this bar?” Josie demanded.  Dean sulked.  She sighed and softened her voice, “Honey, you got spunk and some muscle, but Lester back there was an Olympic weightlifter, and he’s a mercenary.  He could kill you with his pinkie finger and a popcorn kernel and you hustled him?”  The young man slowly raised his eyes and Josie wanted to cry at the answer she saw there.  “Did he pay up?” She demanded.

       Dean blinked as if it took her words a moment to sink in, then shook his head.  “Don’t matter.  I was playin’ for the fight more’n the money.  I already got a couple hundred.”

       “How much does he owe?” Josie insisted.

       “You ain’t collectin’ my money for me,” Dean protested.  “If I can’t make him give it up, I don’t deserve it. …OW!!” He yelped as Josie gave his ear another twist.  Matt and Foggy both winced in sympathy, having been the recipients of Josie’s tough love a few months before when they’d had a falling out that looked almost irreconcilable.

       “One:  you don’t tell me how to run my bar.  I decide I don’t like sore losers, you don’t get to tell me any different.”

       “Yes, ma’am.”

       “Two:  I ask you a question, you give me an answer, not excuses.  Are we clear?”

       “Yes, ma’am,” Dean repeated.

       “How much does Lester owe you?”

       “Eight hundred.”

       Josie nodded in satisfaction as the others’ mouths momentarily lost the ability to close or form any shape other than an _O_.  No one beat Bullseye at pool.  No.  One.  Or at least no one who did lived to brag about it.  “Now empty your pockets.”

       “Wha..?  Why?” Dean sputtered.

       “’Cause you ain’t in a good place in your head, boy, an’ I’m not turnin’ a a loose cannon free in my bar.  You got issues to work out, you do it someplace else.  This ain’t Kansas, Dorothy.  You may be the toughest thing on two feet back home, but here there’s no such thing as a friendly fight.  Now you’re on my turf, you’re in my bar, so you damn well better do what I say.”  She crossed her arms, gripping her own forearms for support as she tried to calm herself.  She knew Bullseye had killed for far more trivial bullshit than the insult Dean had just unintentionally handed him. 

       “Yes, ma’am!” he responded with near military perfection, and eyes so wide she almost let herself fall in.

       “Is this how you usually work a case?”

       “No, ma’am.”  The bar fight usually came after the kill.    

       “I trusted you, Dean.  You disappointed me.”

       She realized her mistake the moment the words left her mouth and the light went out of the young man’s eyes.  As a bar tender, she’d seen eyes like that on sixty year old drunks…if they lived that long.  It was only a flash, and then it was gone, like changing a channel, the bad boy smirk with the mischievous gleam was back.

       Dean glowered, green eyes narrowed and on fire, teeth biting deep into his lower lip, but the silver pistol with the pearl handled grip he’d displayed earlier was set on the table…and the snub-nosed pistol at his ankle…the utility knife clipped to his belt…a machete – a small one, but still, Josie was scared to even ask…a small, decorative looking blade that gleamed like silver…an extra clip of ammo…a bag of peanut M&M’s, half-eaten…a flask engraved with a cross…one of Josie’s own salt shakers…two Zippo lighters, one silver and one with beach bathing monkeys…a book of matches…a set of lock picks…a leather bound journal…the EMF meter (which Foggy referred to as the unholy mating of Lite Brite, a walkman and a Geiger counter)…two cell phones…a roll of cash from his other winnings…a thin tan leather wallet molded into a curve in the shape of Dean’s hip…and the napkins with the sketch of the summoning symbol and Caleb’s notes.  He hadn’t kept the napkin with Lydia’s phone number.  It said something about the neighborhood that the biggest reaction to the unloading of Dean’s personal arsenal was a couple the next table over who merely moved out of the line of fire.

       “That it?” Josie raised her eyebrows and held Dean’s angry gaze with her own.

       “Yes, ma’am.”  This time the two words could be given a variety of interpretations, none of them polite.  The other three were ogling the pile, Matt in the know because Foggy had cataloged the inventory aloud.

       “Karen, do you have a big enough purse to hide all this?”

       “We can put it in my briefcase,” Matt offered.

       “You’re not taking it all,” Dean smacked at the others’ grabby hands.  He removed the wallet, the cash, the journal and napkins, the EMF, the silver Zippo, the cell phones, and the M&M’s with no one contradicting him.  Knowing he was moving into riskier territory, he made a separate pile containing the salt, flask, lock picks and small silver knife.  As Josie’s features effortlessly assumed the dreaded arched-eyebrow-with-frown-and-arms-akimbo position, Dean slid the knife back into the pile of weapons.  At the older woman’s brief nod, the approved items disappeared back into his assortment of pockets as well.

       “Don’t even think about it,” Matt warned the younger man when he felt the shift as Dean’s fingers began to creep towards a gun.  He dragged his briefcase up from the floor and, with Karen’s help, the table was cleared of all deadly weapons and dangerous instruments.  Dean huffed, feeling off balance and only half dressed without the comforting weight of bullets and blades tucked in all his pockets.

       Josie nearly laughed at the protruding lower lip, “Tuck it in before you trip on it, sweetheart.”

       “Josie, are you sure you want to confront Lester?” Karen tried to stop the bar matron from traveling back towards the pool tables alone.

       “That man knows the rules.  Besides Tom Belkin is back there and a few other Hellions and mercs.  He’ll pay up to save face.”

       “I don’t need the money that bad, Josie.  I got enough here.”

       “Man not payin’ his debts in my bar reflects badly on the house.  I ain’t gonna have it.  So you just sit there and play nice, while I take care of business.”  She marched off.

       Feeling like a little kid, Dean began nervously bouncing a leg and drumming his fingers on the table as he watched Josie travel back to the pool tables to get his money from the big bad bully.  The man next to him put a hand on his knee to stop the shaking table.  Dean glared into the darkened lenses of his glasses, wondering what color eyes he was hiding.  As soon as he moved his hand away, Dean began jiggling his leg again.

       “How the hell did you cheat Bulleye?” Foggy demanded.

       The leg stopped moving.  “I didn’t cheat!”

       “You can’t be that good.”

       “Maybe he’s not as good as you think he is.  Seemed like a real asshole.”

       “A dangerous asshole,” Matt spoke softly.  He knew just how dangerous from his own experience with the man; Bullseye and Daredevil had crossed paths before,  “But a talented one.”

       Dean nodded in agreement, surprising the others at the table.  “I grew up hustlin’ pool.  He’s about the best I’ve seen.  Not sayin’ I’d beat him every time, maybe tonight I was just luckier than him.”

       “Are you studying the law too?” Karen asked.

       Dean tried to smile, but instead it looked like one of the hot dogs he had for dinner was fighting for freedom.  Felt like it too.  “Sammy’s the smart one.”  He straightened himself in his seat, leg beginning to twitch again until Matt firmly clamped down on his knee.  “I didn’t mean anything rude by calling you _Ma’am_.” He said to Karen.  “I was trying to be polite.”

       “So you don’t think I’m an old lady,” she teased.

       “Just a lady,” Dean returned her smile easier this time.  “And you’re pretty enough to be a little scary for a guy like me who’s kind of rough around the edges.”

       Oh, hell, was this brat hitting on Karen?  Bad enough that Foggy had to compete with Matt all handsome and brooding and tragic like a guy out of one of those teenage vampire romances (Which Foggy would swear to his deathbed he never read…Thank God Matt could only read Braille and couldn’t see the titles of the books beside his bed.)  Now he had Ponyboy trying to get in on the action.  Only thing a guy could do was change the subject:  “Josie said you two are trying to solve Meredith’s murder,” Foggy prodded.  “How’d you get involved with that?”

       “All the victims were from Lawrence, Kansas.  It caught our attention.”

       “You’re kinda young to be the guardians of Kansas, don’t you think?”

       “You’re kinda nosy.”

       The cigarette smoke in the bar was minimal, but it rendered Matt’s nose nearly useless after more than an hour, still Dean was close enough for Matt’s heightened senses to identify his scent as leather, gunpowder and road, the latter of which which Matt broke down even further to be car exhaust, Turtle Wax and motor oil.  Both brothers shared that basic mirepoix.  But Dean was whiskey where Sam was aftershave, salt and soap to his brother’s…crap…there was that rotten egg smell again, like that Easter Sunday at the orphanage where the temperature was in the eighties and Sister Margaret’s only partially cooked eggs sat in the sun baked yard for hours before the egg hunt.

       Matt swore the floor rumbled as Sam Campbell’s long-legged stride approached.  “What the hell, Dean?  You were fighting?  Here?”

       Without raising his eyes to see Sam, Dean muttered, “And I hear Bitchface #21 for the day.”

       “So this is Dean?” A lilting female voice managed to convey both mockery and displeasure.  “I must say I was expecting more.”

       The taunt brought Dean to his feet, “Oh, sweetheart, I got more for you.”

       “Nice,” the girl deadpanned.  “You got a real Neanderthal in the family, Sam.  Of course, I can’t say I’m surprised after what all you told me about him.”

       A frown furrowed Dean’s brow.  “I’m sorry…you know each other?”

       Sam attempted to interject himself into the middle of their conversation, “Dean, this is Meg Masters.  I met her in Indiana when I was traveling on my own a few weeks ago.”

       “You remember that, don’t you, Dean-o?  Remember leaving Sam here on the side of the road and driving off without him?”

       “It wasn’t like that,” Dean growled.  “Sam left me.”

       Matt had the feeling this was what people meant when they said they felt they were watching a train wreck.  He could even taste the coppery tang of blood in the air.  There was no way this was going to end well, but all he and his companions could do was sit and let the drama unfold. 

       “And he’s going to leave you again, baby,” she crooned smoothly, bringing chills to Matt’s skin like nails on a blackboard.  “You actually think he wants to stay with you?  Driving around the country hustling pool to make ends meet?  You haulin’ him around like luggage?  Sam’s got a future, Dean, he’s not a sexually confused deadbeat high school dropout with the emotional maturity and table manners of a two year old.”

       “Meg!” Sam finally put a halt to the verbal assault.

       “I’m sorry, Sam,” she simpered with all the sincerity of a presidential candidate, “but after the things you told me…  I had to speak up.  I knew you’d never stand up for yourself.”

       “Maybe you’d better go now.  I’ll catch up with you later.”

       Meg gave a fake pout.  “You have my phone number and my address.”  She wrapped her arms around Sam’s neck, standing on tiptoe and pulling him down to meet her at the same time.  Meg smirked at Dean over his brother’s shoulder as she and Sam kissed…and kissed…and…  Not that Matt was a prude but the wet sounds of suction and the click of teeth mixed with the smell of cigarettes, rotten eggs and blood made him wrinkle his nose and turn his head away.

       Foggy cleared his throat at the same time Dean opened his mouth, “When I told you to get laid, Sammy, I didn’t mean I wanted to see it.”

       When the couple parted, there was a smear of blood on Sam’s lip.  His tongue darted out to swipe it clean.  Jesus, that girl did something to him.  She made him feel invincible and confident.  He could feel flickers of sensation lighting up his brain.  He felt powerful.  Too bad she…  What was it?  There was something…

       “Sam?”  Dean opened and closed his mouth, jaw clicking.  He didn’t know what to say.

       Dean!  Sam turned to his brother and an irrational swell of anger boiled under his skin.  “Finally!  Speechless is a good look on you, Dean.  You should try it more often.”

       “Sam!  Stop it!”  Karen couldn’t keep silent as Dean flinched like he’d been slapped.

       “Come on, man,” Foggy joined his support as they tried to talk Mr. Hyde out of the nerdy kid who’d practically popped a boner discussing the finer points of Constitutional law less than two hours before.

       “Did…  Do you really think I treat you like luggage, Sammy?” Dean’s voice was small.  “You’re the most important thing I’ve got.”

       “Bullshit, Dean.  Lie to yourself, but don’t lie to me.  You can’t stand being alone.  Dad drove off and left your pathetic ass behind, so you came and pulled me out of school and back into this life, Dean.  You led the fucking demons right to me!  It’s your fault Jess died, and I will never forgive you for that!  Never!”  He shoved Dean, sending him stumbling back where he was captured effortlessly by the blind man who’d risen to his feet in the course of Sam’s tirade.  “You owe me, Dean.  How many times have I had to save your life in the last six months?  No wonder Dad doesn’t want our help.  You’re a liability.”

       Matt kept his arms around Dean, but the older brother wasn’t fighting back though his lungs were heaving and his body tensed and tremored at each new insult like they were lashes of a whip biting into his skin.

       That left Foggy to deal with the giant.  “Thanks, Matt,” he mumbled, knowing his friend would hear.  “I thought you were the superhero.”

       He wouldn’t have considered it if the same thing hadn’t happened only a month ago when Sam had been touched by a ghost.  Dean took the jerry rigged contraption from inside his pocket and tossed it at Karen who fumbled with it for a second, but salvaged the catch.  Dean breathed a sigh of relief and reminded himself not to do anything so stupid again.  “Twist that knob at the top and point it at Sam, if you don’t mind.”

       “Not possessed, Dean…” the squeal of the EMF begged to differ.

       “What is that thing?” Foggy’s voice was climbing higher again.

       “Sammy, remember that case we worked in Rockford?” Dean was talking to Sam cautiously, catching Foggy’s eye and waving the man away from his brother.  The attorney was only too happy to comply.

       Sam, for his part, was staring at the EMF with a baffled expression on his face, comprehension slowly dawning.  Dean waited a moment to give him a chance to catch up.  “I ain’t gonna touch you, Sammy.  I’m gonna stay here.  Rapunzel, there,” Dean nodded at Foggy to make sure the attorney knew that was him, “is gonna reach under your jacket nice and easy and get the Taurus from the small of your back.”  He gave the attorney the go ahead.  “It’s just Froggy…”

       “Foggy,” four voices corrected him.

       “Seriously…” Dean gave his head a shake.  “You don’t have a beef with Legally Blond, Sammy.  Let him take the gun.”

       “Dean, I’m…” Sam’s voice was hesitant.

       Dean gave a mirthless laugh, “I know.”

       “No, I mean.  I’m not possessed, and I don’t feel like I did in the asylum.  I feel good…really good.”

       “Sammy, the EMF don’t lie.”

       “EMF,” Foggy silently mouthed to Karen.

       “Possessed?!” she mouthed back.

       “Oh, come on, Dean, you built the thing outta junk.  You’re no engineer, you had one high school shop class that you probably flunked like everything else.”

       Foggy emerged from behind Sam holding the gun like it was a dead mouse.  “What do I do?”

       Dean sighed, where was the gun-toting crowd when you needed them.  “Just put it in your pants, man, but don’t pull the trigger.”  Dean glanced back at his brother.  “Got anything else, Sam?”

       “I don’t need anything else.”

       “I got precious stuff in my pants,” Foggy whined, still awkwardly holding the gun.

       “Turn that off,” the older brother directed Karen who silenced the machine in her hands.  Glancing at the dark haired douche in the sunglasses, Dean snapped, “Are you any better with guns than him?”  He wasn’t prepared for the incredulous and insulted looks he got from the other three as the dark-haired attorney burst out in laughter. 

       “Dean, he’s blind,” a touch of cold contempt crept back into Sam’s voice.

       “It’s okay,” Matt was still releasing short bursts of chuckles like champagne bubbles fizzing to the surface that couldn’t be contained.  He probably was at least more familiar with guns than his office mates though they certainly weren't his thing, but he couldn't share that information.

       “You didn’t notice the glasses and the cane,” Foggy demanded, offended on behalf of his friend.

       Dean shrugged, “It’s New Jerk City, I thought he was just a pretentious asshole.”  In spite of the tense situation, Matt started laughing all over again and this time even Foggy and Karen couldn’t hide smiles.

       “Yeah, he is that.”

       “Fuck you,” Matt shot back at his friend with no venom.

       “That leaves you, princess,” Dean pushed Sam’s gun across the table towards Karen.  She stopped laughing and looked like she was going to be sick.  Guns did not bring up good memories.

       “Aw hell,” Dean picked up the weapon, grateful that his own were stowed away.  Seeing Dean armed, the gleam of rage lit back up in Sam’s pupils.

       “Scared of me, Dean?”

       “Should I be, little brother?”

       Sam hacked out a laugh and smiled.  In that moment, Karen decided dimples could, in fact, be frightening.  “I haven’t been the little brother for a long time, Dean.  I don’t need you.”

       Dean’s hands shook as he tucked the gun into his back waistband.  He took the flask and the salt shaker from his pocket.  “Pour this in a glass and load it with salt.”  He hoped somebody at the table could follow instructions.  The girl did as he asked, Foggy staying close to Sam and Matt was at Dean’s elbow.

       “What is that?”  Foggy had expected whiskey, but the liquid that poured from the flask was clear.

       “Holy water.”  Dean never took his eyes off Sam, the hatred he saw there freezing the blood in his veins.  When Karen pushed the glass back at him, he took it and held it out to Sam.  “Bottoms up, Sammy.”  He drew Sam’s gun, pointing it at Sam to enforce his order.

       “You won’t shoot me, Dean.”  Sam had no doubt, Matt could hear it in his pulse.

       “Correction:  I won’t kill you, Sam.”

       Sam suddenly had doubts. 

       Wisely, Sam downed the shot, coughing as it burned a path down his gullet almost like real whiskey would.  That wasn’t typical.  “You bastard!  What did you…”  His stomach began to roll, “Bathroom…” he gasped before sprinting off.

       Dean started to follow, but Foggy stopped him.  “I got this.”  The older brother nodded gratefully.

       “Matt…” Karen began to tell him what was happening, but he could already feel the shivers vibrating through the other man once Sam was gone. 

       He took hold of Dean’s arm, letting his hand slide down the muscular bicep and forearm, while stepping close enough to put his other hand on Dean’s opposite shoulder.  His fingers encircled the younger man’s wrist, slipping under the too long cuff of the leather jacket to trace back and forth along the tender flesh at the inside of Dean’s wrist, rolling between his fingers the bracelets Dean wore and eliciting a harsh intake of breath that could have been a sob.  “It’s okay to let go,” he said gently, tugging slightly on the kid’s shoulder, so he could feel Matt’s presence behind him, warm and solid, keeping him upright.  “Let go,” he repeated, still quiet, but with more authority and Dean obediently let the other man remove the gun from his hand.  Matt noted that the safety was still on and the gun was unloaded.  Dean would never have shot Sam. 

       “Sit,” Matt instructed, feeling for the chair, finding it and giving Dean the smallest push down into it, feeling satisfaction when the young man complied without protest.  “Breathe.”

       Dean shook his head.  He’d forgotten how.  Spots started to dance at the edges of his vision and his heartbeat was thunder in his ears.  “Dean, listen to me.”  Matt twisted the other chair so they were facing each other.  Taking Dean’s hand, he placed it on his chest.  “Feel me breathing.”  He took a steady inhale and breathed back out.  “Do what I do, okay?”  Pressing their foreheads together, he began to repeat, “In.  Out.”  He could feel the younger man struggling to follow the command.  “You can do it.  I know you can, Dean.  In.  Out.  Just relax.  Don’t fight it.”  Finally drawing in a strangled breath of air, Dean began to cough and attempted to break free of the lawyer even as his fingers curled into the fabric of Matt’s suit.  “It’s okay.”  He gave the man his space, not commenting upon the hand clutching at him or the way Dean still leaned in as if wanting more contact but unable to cross those few inches of space to get it.  “Keep breathing.  Come on.  In.  Out, Dean.  You got it.  In.  Out.”

       “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry,” Dean gasped out in between hiccups of breath.

       “You’re good, Dean.  Don’t worry.  Doing so good,” he soothed.  He felt the younger man’s breathing slowly even out and his heart rate begin to slow.  

       Hearing the click of Karen’s high heeled shoes on the concrete floor, Matt helped the younger man save face, detaching his fingers from Matt’s jacket.  “Company’s coming,” he murmured in Dean’s ear resulting in the briefest contact of cheek to cheek.  Matt thought he felt a bit of extra pressure in Dean’s grip before he dropped Matt’s hand.  Seconds later, Karen was back with Josie, a bottle of tequila, and several shot glasses.  She poured the first for Dean who took it and tossed it back hungrily, like a drowning man.  She poured him another and he did the same, she herself would have hesitated before giving Dean a third, but Matt made the call as he covered Dean’s hand with his own, pulling the shot glass away easily.  “No more for him tonight, Karen.”  Dean was still too shell shocked to disagree.

       “Yeah.  Okay.”  She took one herself.

       “Karen told me what happened, Dean.” Josie put down the wad of cash she had forced Lester to cough up (and that was another problem they would have to deal with eventually) and sat as close to Dean’s right as Matt was to his left.  Her voice was as soft and sympathetic as Matt had ever heard it.  “Now I want to hear your version.  What did the EMF mean?”  Dean’s eyes widened, but his attempt to refuse was cut off by the bar matron.  “I want them to know it all,” she assured him.

     “Dad would kick my butt.  We do what we do so people don’t have to know.  Telling six civilians in one day…  God, I’m such a fuck up.”  No wonder Dad left and Sam couldn’t wait to leave him too.  He reached for the shot glass and the bottle, only to have the man pressed to his side stop him.

     “I said no more, Dean.”  Matt’s tone was still calm, leaving Dean to wonder if he ever raised his voice.

     The younger man was recovered enough to argue.  “Dude, I don’t even know your name.  You’re not the boss of me.”  Okay, he wasn’t recovered enough to argue well.  Dean winced at the words and the sound of his own wounded voice.

     Fortunately, Matt just gave a quiet chuckle.  Karen didn’t know if she’d ever seen him laugh so much.  “Matt Murdock,” he introduced himself, his right hand reaching across Dean to search for his, finding and grasping it in an awkward handshake.  “And I may not be the boss of you, but I do control the tequila bottle.”

     “Whiskey tastes better anyway,” Dean muttered under his breath.

     “I’m the boss of the whiskey bottles, sweetness,” Josie reminded him.  “You’re not getting your hands on one of those either.”

     No one was more surprised than Dean himself when, instead of cursing at these people who were strangers just hours ago, he looked down at his right hand, the hand the lawyer was still holding in an extended handshake.  “You don’t have soft hands,” he observed with surprise.

     Matt smiled again.  Dean liked how the movement lifted the man’s face, like there was a mischievous sparkle buried behind the dark round frames of his wire rimmed glasses.  “Being blind, I use my hands a lot.  To read.  To figure out where I am or where I’m going.  I’ve gotten lots of cuts and scrapes along the way.”

     Dean’s forehead scrunched up and he bit his lip as if he were going to ask another question.  The blind man’s explanation didn’t tell the whole story.  Matt Murdock’s hands weren’t just calloused and marred with the occasional scar, they were strong, and the knuckles large and hard from fights won and lost over years and years.  Hands like his own.  Like his Dad’s.  Familiar. 

     “Dean, what’s wrong with Sam?”  Karen brought him back to focus on the one thing he was trying to avoid.

     Not possessed.  At least not by a demon.  The holy water would have burned, not turned his stomach.  And holy water wouldn’t have an effect on a ghost like Dr. Ellicott from the asylum.  Maybe there was just too much salt in the shot glass.  But that meant nothing was wrong, that Sam really hated him enough not just to think those things, but to say them out loud and in front of others.  But there was the EMF...  And the girl…  Sam had met her before.  That had to mean something…  Ughh!  He rested his elbows on the table and massaged his eyes and temples.  “My brain needed lubrication.  I at least need another beer.”

     He was rewarded with another soft laugh from the attorney.  “I’ll get you a beer, _if_ you answer the question and drink a glass of water.”

     “I knew you were an asshole.” Josie wasn’t the only one who thought Dean’s peevish growl was adorable.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 

       “Dean, your brother wasn’t… The things he said to you...  That’s…”  It wasn’t her business.  Karen had told herself that several times.  But she had a habit of making things her business, especially when she saw something that wasn’t right, and what she had just witnessed…that wasn’t right.  “That’s not normal, is it?”

       “Does it have anything to do with what happened to Meredith?” Josie spoke at the same time she sat a glass of water in front of Dean’s bowed head and a beer in front of Matt.

       “That’s mine,” Dean objected as the attorney raised the glass to his lips and took a drink, head tilted back, adam’s apple bobbing.

       “Then you better drink that water fast or it’ll be gone.”  Matt licked the taste of the beer from his lips and Dean’s eyes followed as he subconsciously mirrored the gesture.

       Josie didn’t know whether to laugh or tell Matt to stop teasing the boy.  She did neither.  She had a feeling neither of them quite realized what they were doing.  Well, not entirely.  She _was_ positive that Dean fully intended to avoid the topic of Sam as long as possible.

       His time was up.  Sam stalked back to the table with Foggy in his wake.  Karen caught the eye of the blond attorney, looking for a sign that Sam was cured.  Instead, he shook his head and gave her The Look, that one he wore after a trial when a jury returned a conviction on an innocent man.

       “What did you put in that shot glass?” Sam stood on the opposite side of the table from where Dean sat, but he seemed to tower over the hunched figure of his brother.

       “Holy water and salt, man.  You know the drill.”

       “Then why did it make me sick?”

       “Why don’t you tell me?”  He met and held Sam’s gaze, neither brother blinking.  “Christo!”

       Nothing happened.  Sam’s eyes familiar hazel eyes didn’t flash demon black though they were definitely burning.

       “Told you.  I’m not possessed.”

       “Possessed by what?” Karen asked, afraid of the answer.

       “Dean thinks I must be possessed by a demon, but he just got proven wrong.  Again.”

       Foggy laughed then realized no one was laughing with him.  “Demonic possession?  Like The Exorcist?  You’re kidding me?”  He looked between Sam and Dean whose eyeballs were still locked together.  “Right?  I mean there was some vomiting going on in the bathroom, not gonna lie, but it was just normal barf, not pea soup, and I would have noticed if Paul Bunyan here started rotating his head 360° or floating on the goddamn ceiling!”

       Dean didn’t let himself get distracted.  “Who was the girl, Sammy?”

       “I told you.  Meg Masters from Andover, Massachusetts.  I met her when I was hitchhiking.  I turned around and there she was, sitting on her bag listening to her iPod.  Not exactly the type of thing you’d expect from a monster.”

       In spite of Sam’s intimidating height, Dean remained seated and disapproving, like a principal watching the posturing of an unruly teenager in his office, but where their legs were pressed together, Matt could feel his knees trembling.  “What’s the rest of the story?”

       “We talked for about ten minutes then a ride came that picked her up, but not me.  When I got to the bus station, she was there already.”

       “Did she know that’s where you were headed?” Dean barked out the question.

       “No,” Sam snapped.  “I just chalked it up to chance.”

       “It’s never worked that way for us, Sammy, and you should damn well know it!”

       “Normal people believe in coincidences, Dean.”

       “When have we ever been normal?”

       “Maybe not you, but you’ve never wanted to be anything other than Dad’s little soldier.  And he still liked me better.  But I got my chance, Dean, I was normal in California!  I was free from you and Dad and living life on the hunt, always looking over my shoulder.  I was happy!  The only time I’ve ever been happy in my life!  I didn’t even salt the doors and windows at Stanford.”

       “And that’s how a demon got inside and killed your girlfriend.  Maybe I led it to your door, but you’re the one who let it walk right in.” 

       Sam’s large body dropped like dead weight into the nearest chair.  “I know.”  Tears made his eyes glow and one overflowed and made a path down his cheek. 

       Dean wanted to throw himself at Sam’s feet and beg forgiveness as he watched the rage leave his brother like air from a punctured balloon, but they had a problem to solve, a job to do, and Sam’s attitude was getting in the way.  Dean’s tactic was effective.  Dad would have approved.  But it left collateral damage on both sides.  Dad wouldn’t have cared.

       Josie swatted Dean in the back of his head and the classy lady with the long strawberry blond hair was looking at him in horror as if he’d just drop kicked an injured puppy or spit on her fancy shoes.  That’s okay.  Now they could see what kind of person he was.  Now he could stop lying to himself and pretending he had friends.  Now he could do his job.

       Matt put a hand on Dean’s neck, wanting to squeeze his fingers into the knotted tendons and stiff muscles, but feeling the way the younger man only tensed further at the touch.  He left his hand there, but left it still.

       Dean took a shaky breath but made it as deep as he could.  He wanted to shake off the other man’s hand, but he’d already been a dick to the blind guy and he didn’t want to make it worse.  The guy probably thought it was a nice gesture, supposed to make Dean feel…whatever…feelings or something.

       Foggy waved his arms drawing all attention to him.  “Yeah.  Boo Hoo.  Shitty childhood.  Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen.  Matt’s Mom tried to kill him.  His Dad was gunned down in an alley.  My Mom is a fire-breathing dragon bitch.  Join the fucking club.”  His voice had gradually increased in pitch and his cheeks were flushed pink.  “Can we move past the family drama or am I the only one still freaking out over demons?” he whisper shouted, a faint spray of spit showering Sam who, in spite of his state of distress, managed another prudish pucker.

       Dean blinked, pinching his lips together, curling them in and even biting down on them to seal them shut, which only resulted in obscene sounds as he tried to hold back his laughter.  Having the emotional maturity of a two year old (at least the Meg bitch had something right) the sounds of his own snorts spurred Dean on to outright cackles.  Tears rolled down his face and if some of them weren’t the happy kind, no one could prove it.

       Wiping his eyes and nose as the others stared at him with everything from confusion to amusement to criticism to curiosity, Dean grasped for the glass of water and tried not to choke on the remains of his maniacal outburst of mirth.  Fuck ‘em.  Sometimes all you could do was laugh to keep yourself sane.  Dean guzzled the water down to the last drop.  When he leaned forward to set the glass back down, he felt a gentle tug on his hair.  He realized that the hand on his neck had remained there through the entire shit show.  He’d almost forgotten about it.  To confirm it was still there, he pressed into the other man’s grip faintly and the long fingers moved slightly, brushing along the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck.  Goosebumps suddenly peppered Dean’s arms and he disguised a gasp behind a fake cough.  He took a moment to press harder into the attorney’s touch…not because it felt nice or anything…just because... reasons, you know.    

       Sam watched with narrowed eyes, waiting for Dean to pull the machete out of his coat pocket and hack off the arm of the man who was trying to gentle him like a skittish colt.  The moment never came.  Instead he watched as Dean practically butted his head against Matt Murdock’s hand, seeking the lawyer’s touch.

       Dean opened his eyes (Wait a second, when did they even close?) to find himself the center of attention.  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, snatching up the half empty glass of beer and using it as a shield as he drank.  “Um.  Yeah.  Demons are real.  Killed our Mom.  Killed Sam’s girlfriend.”

       “And you thought Sam was possessed?” Karen asked, hovering near Sam as if she wanted to comfort him, but terrified of coming any closer.  “Why?”

       Whether there was hurt or hatred in Sam’s eyes, Dean didn’t think he could bear to see it.  He studied his fingers as he drew patterns in the condensation coating the glass of beer.  “The last time Sam acted like this we were in Illinois at the Rockford Asylum…”  He shot a quick glare at Foggy, “And before you ask, no, we weren’t patients.”  He returned his attention to the glass.  “We were hunting a ghost.”

       “Like on the T.V. show?” Karen asked.

       “God, no!” Dean couldn’t help his sneer.  “We weren’t looking for a photo op.  This was a ghost who hurt people.  Messed with their heads and then they’d go home and kill their wives or their parents or their friends.  Before we could gank it, it got its hooks in Sammy.  He fired a shotgun into my chest and took my own gun and pulled the trigger three times.  Shotgun was loaded with rocksalt and the gun wasn’t loaded so it didn’t hurt much,” he gave a wry smile.  “It was all the sweet things he said that stung.  Same things he was saying tonight.”  Again, Dean avoided Sam’s gaze.  “So that’s the first reason.”  He tapped the EMF reader.  “That’s the second.  EMF went nuts when you pointed it at Sam.”

       “You made an EMF detector?” Matt asked.  The awe in his voice bordered on praise which Dean wouldn’t allow himself to accept.

       “Sam’s right.  It’s just junk I threw together.  It’s probably busted.”

       Josie frowned.  These boys just tore at her heart.  “It works just fine.  I’ve seen it in action and I saw my grandmother’s ghost.”

       Matt wondered if he should pound his own head into a wall a few times, because he didn’t think he was working just fine.  There was no way, repeat, _No Way_ , that his personal lie detector shouldn’t be raising all kinds of alarms what with talk of demons, ghosts, dead girlfriends and mothers, and attempted fratricide.  No way this could all be the truth.  He took his hand off Dean’s neck.  “Any other reason?  You gave us two.”

       Dean shuddered at the sudden loss of warm pressure on his exposed skin.  “The salt and holy water.  It shouldn’t have had any effect.  Instead, it made Sam sick.”

       “But Dean, if I was possessed, it should have done more.  It should have burned.  I should have been screaming.”

       “Something’s wrong,” Dean insisted.

       “Why?  Because you can’t believe I hate you?”

       “Because you want to be normal so bad, Sammy, you never would have told a complete stranger about our life.  Because the Sam I know likes sweet wholesome college girls and art historians and treats them right.  He doesn’t chew the face off some chick in front of an audience and lick her blood off his lips.  However normal you want to pretend to be, you know how many creatures out there can influence you or turn you with blood.  Because you’ve met this girl twice now, and both times we’ve nearly killed each other.”

       “Where was she going?  Meg?  When you met her at the bus stop.” Matt couldn’t help contributing to the examination, there was too much of the lawyer in him. 

       “California.  Same as me,” the younger brother was studying the table now.  “But the bus didn’t come for another day, so we hung out.”  The younger brother blushed.

       “Sammy?”  There was an uptick at the end of the one word question.

       Sam held his tongue, pretending he didn’t understand the implication.

       “So…what did a guy and a girl do for a day and a night while they waited?” Foggy picked up on Dean’s meaning faster than Sam.

       “We talked.  We ate.  We drank a few beers.”

       “Did ya talk about me, Sammy…”

       “Sam!  It’s Sam, Dean.”  The younger brother’s chest rose and fell rapidly with his breathing.  “Yeah.  We talked about you.  I complained.  Hell, Dean, we’d just had a fight.  I was mad.  Of course I was talking shit about you!”

       “Did you have sex?” Karen demanded.  “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she told the others.  “You were all dying to ask.”

       Sam blushed, his lips pursed in indignation.

       “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Bitchface Number…”

       “25,” Foggy interrupted.  “You missed a few in the bathroom.”

       “Was she kinky?”

       “Shut up, Dean.  Meg is tame by your standards, I’m sure,” Sam growled.  “You really want to start comparing kinks?”  He slid his eyes to the dark haired man beside his brother who couldn’t seem to stop touching Dean. 

       “Sammm…” Dean stopped himself from using the kid name.  “You know somethin’ ain’t right.  Maybe it really is coincidence and maybe she’s bein’ influenced too. But we ain’t gonna know until you tell us.  Please.”

       Sam poured a shot as he spoke.  “She likes rough kissing.  That’s all.”  He tossed back the drink with a stiff wrist and tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal.  But, it was, wasn’t it, some alarm bell in his brain began to ring somewhat belatedly.  Funny, it hadn’t seemed important at the time.  “Maybe some cutting,” he mumbled.

       Dean erupted like Mount Vesuvius.  “That’s all!  Sam, you goddamn idiot!  How many things turn you by biting!  Or can influence you with their blood or spit?”

       “She wasn’t a werewolf, Dean, and vampires are extinct.”  He smirked.  “Besides, she wasn’t the one doing the biting.”

       “Siren?  Succubus?  Zombie?  And you know there’s more!  And that’s just the things we know about!”

       “Zombie?  You’re bein’ ridiculous, Dean.”

       Ridiculous.  But not lying.  Matt grabbed onto the table to ground himself.  This wasn’t a dream.  He had to tamp down the fear rising up like bile.  He hadn’t felt so overwhelmed since he was a kid, after the accident, before he learned how to control and process the inescapable flood of information that poured over and slammed into him from his new powers.  He needed them to stop talking.  He needed to stagger outside for some of whatever passed for fresh air in New York City.  He needed to pull himself together and deal with this.

       “Did you test her?”

       “Dean.”  Sam stubbornly glared, hands fisted and arms crossed tightly over his chest.  “Have you tested every bar bunny you’ve fucked?  Every john you lured into a dark alley when we were growing up?”  He laughed at his brother’s shocked expression.  “What?  Did you think I didn’t know?  I was a smart kid, Dean.”

       “Yeah, Sammy, I tested them all,” Dean admitted weakly.  “Did.  You.  Test.  Her?” 

       “No!”  Sam spat out the confession. 

       “And tonight?”

       “You saw us kissing.”

       “I saw blood on your mouth.  There’s some on your jacket too.”

       Sam hung his head and fessed up.  “When we were making out she made a small cut on her arm.  I thought it was hot.”  He paled at the realization of what he had done.  “I’m an idiot.”  There were moments he knew he was being stupid, being cruel, being used…and others… “It felt good, Dean,” he whined trying to make his big brother sympathize.  “I can still feel it.  I feel like I can do anything.  Like I don’t need anyone…don’t need you.” 

       “Okay,” Josie looked between the brothers.  “If we assume she poisoned Sam, or whatever.  What does that mean?  Do you think she has anything to do with the thing that killed Meredith?”

       Sam pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.  “We don’t know if that’s Meg.  We can’t be sure.  And even if she…drugged me or something, we don’t know that she’s connected to the killing here.”

       “Then why is she here, Sammy?  She supposedly hopped a bus to the west coast less than a month ago, and now she’s here in New York.  Hanging out in the bar where the last murder victim worked and waiting for you.  How’d she take it when you didn’t get on the bus with her?”

       Sam closed his eyes.  “Shocked.  Kinda angry.  Then she just begged.”

       “So you think short, blond and bitchy killed Meredith?” Foggy demanded.

       Dean sighed.  “We think the killing’s being done by a daeva.  They were supposedly created to be the polar opposite of all things good in the world.  But to do what this one is doing…  It has a master.”

       “But why Meredith?  Why any of the victims?”  Karen asked.  “What’s the motive?  And why does it matter to you?”

       “We hunt monsters.”

       There was a beat of silence.  Dean knew that silence that usually preceded shouts and threats and orders to leave and never come back.  Longingly, he studied Matt’s hands which still had the edges of the table in a white-knuckled grip and wished they would touch him again, just once before he had to go. 

       “Josie, you believe this?” Foggy looked at the woman who had introduced them to the brothers.

       “Do I believe in the supernatural?”  She clarified.  “Yes.  I do.”  She sighed long and loud, it had been an exhausting day.  “Do I believe demons killed Meredith?  Or these boys’ mother?  Well…  Dear God, I hope not, but it’s more of a theory than the cops got.”

       Foggy looked at Matt intensely.  “I never thought I’d ask you this, buddy…”  Matt knew what he wanted.  What he couldn’t ask for out loud.  “I believe that you believe in monsters and demons, Dean,” Matt chose his words carefully.  Nobody was lying, but…well, Matt was a realist even if he was a masked vigilante by night.  The only monsters he’d ever seen committing crimes were the human ones.  But he was also Catholic.  Deep down inside, he believed in the devil.  He did.  Didn’t he?  “There are men that kill mothers and girlfriends and start fires.  Men who kill pretty young girls like Meredith for sport.  I think we can all hunt the killer together and we’ll see who’s right when we catch him.”

       “Mom died on the ceiling.  Pinned there by an invisible force and gutted while fire sprang up out of nowhere and destroyed our house in minutes.  I was almost four.  I stood in the doorway to Sammy’s nursery and saw it all before Dad put Sammy in my arms and told me to run,” Dean spoke bluntly.  Once again his pulse never skipped a beat.

       “You were four,” Karen tried to reason with him.  “Things look different to a child.”

       “Jess died the same way,” Sam volunteered.  “Less than a year ago.  I watched her die.  No man did that.  Believe me.  I wanted a normal life.  I wanted to forget what’s out there.  It didn’t forget me.”  Damn.  That was all the truth too.

       “And something ripped Meredith’s heart out of her body.  Something that could enter locked apartments and leave again without disturbing a chain or an alarm.  Something that didn’t leave any fingerprints or trace evidence.  We are from Lawrence, Kansas.  That’s where Mom died.  That’s when Dad learned about monsters and started the hunt for the thing that killed Mom.  Over twenty years and he’s still looking.  But he called us right after we killed that ghost that got in Sammy’s head.  He told us Mom was killed by a demon, a powerful one.  That he was closing in on it, but it knew he was coming.  He told us we were all in danger and…”

       “And then he hung up, like always,” Sam said bitterly.

       “We thought we might find him here.  Something killing natives of Lawrence, Kansas, might be trying to send a message.”

       “I don’t want to believe,” Matt spoke it to the ceiling.  To the heavens.  There was already so much human evil he was determined to fight…and now…to discover that there might be more…more than he had never imagined.  Reaching out, he returned his hand to Dean’s thigh in a tight grip for his own comfort and sanity.  Dean believed.  He was real.  He’d survived.

       “I hear you, partner,” Foggy echoed.

       “So we’re going with the monsters are real, theory of the case?”  Karen swallowed several times.  She looked up with a wobbly grin, “Okay then.  What do we know so far?”  Dean and Sam went over the details of the current case and Dean showed the others the Zoroastrian summoning sigil. 

       “Give me your hand,” Dean told Matt.

       The rest of the group pretended to listen to Sam while Dean took Matt’s right hand and curled the fingers, leaving only the index finger extended.  Using both his hands to guide and support the lawyer’s, Dean traced the pattern of the symbol onto the tabletop twice.  “Yeah.  Well.  That’s what it looks like,” he mumbled self-consciously, dropping the hand after realizing he’d probably been holding it too long.

       The tequila bottle was passed around twice as the case was explained, each time, Matt took the bottle out of Dean’s hands, refusing to let him drink.

       “Hey Murdock, how many fingers am I holding up?” Dean flipped up his middle finger inches from Matt’s face after the second time he was denied.

       Matt grinned.  “One.”  He paused.  “That’s generally the correct answer when the one asking the question is pissed.” 

       Foggy snorted, remembering when he’d asked the same question not so long ago.  “You would know.”

       Matt tossed down the remainder of his second shot before clearing his throat.  “So where is your Dad?  Have you told him about this case?  Is he coming here?”

       Dean felt sick and was grateful that he wasn’t full of whiskey or tequila.  “I called him before we came here tonight and left him a message about the case.  He didn’t answer.”

       Sam gave a derisive sound and another scowl.  “When does he ever?  Man calls us after six months of searchin’, expectin’ us to drop everything and follow his damn orders, but he hasn’t once answered our calls.  Not even when you were dying, Dean!  You really expect him to come now?”

       “No,” Dean admitted softly.  “Not unless he thinks there’s a connection to Mom.  He won’t come just ‘cause I asked him to.”

       Sam glanced at the clock on the wall.  “It’s almost midnight.  Turk and Brett will be here soon with their information.”  He shifted uncomfortably.  “Meg gave me her address.  I can stake it out.”

       “No, Sammy.  I don’t want you anywhere near her.”

       “I’ll keep away, Dean.  Who else here can do it?”

       Matt could hear Foggy’s heartbeat quicken.  Matt could do it and Foggy knew he could, but neither one of them could actually volunteer that information…but if they could get the address.

       “Turk can do it.” Josie volunteered.  “Or he knows someone who can.  He just needs the address and a description of the girl.”

       Matt made a disgusted sound.  “Just tell him to follow the smell of rotten eggs.  The girl reeked.”

       There was sudden silence from the table with the exception of Dean’s heartbeat which was nearly deafening.  “You smelled sulfur?”

       “Didn’t you?  Any of you?”

       He could hear the shift of fabric as heads were shaken, and a scattered chorus of _No_.  “Being blind, my other senses kinda work a little harder,” he hoped they would accept that explanation.  Shit.

       “Yeah, I’ve heard of that,” Karen commented and Matt breathed a sigh of relief.

       “I caught a hint of it a couple times tonight, but it was strongest when she was standing here.  I almost had to cover my nose.  Why?  Is that important?”

       “Brimstone,” Sam’s voice cracked.  “Demons, hell demons, not like the daeva, those are more like gods…  Demons smell like brimstone.  Which is…”

       “Sulfur.” Matt finished.  “But no one else smelled her?”

       “Meg was just a meat suit.  The demon was inside.  We can smell them when they’re on the outside.  When they’re like that they actually leave traces of sulfur lying around,” Dean explained.  “It’s why we run the damn tests!” He bellowed.  “You fucked a goddamn demon, Sam!  Who knows what her blood will do to you!”

       “I’m so sorry, Dean,” Sam whimpered.  “I think most of it came up after that shot of holy water.  Salt water’s always made me kinda queasy, but I’ve never had my stomach turn like that before.”

       “Holy water can kill a demon?” Foggy sounded relieved.  If demons existed, it was nice there was such an easy solution.

       “Nothing can kill a demon,” Dean said bluntly.  “Holy water and salt can hurt it.  Exorcism sends it back to hell, but it’ll find a way back topside eventually.”  He gestured to the holy water and shaker of salt.  “We’re not takin’ any chances.  Shake, lick and swallow.  Everyone.”

       “Now that sounds kinky,” Foggy frowned, but didn’t hesitate to reach for the salt, unscrewing the cap and pouring some into his palm.  He licked the salt grains up and took a swig from the flask.  He choked and chugged the remainder of his beer.  “Delicious,” he wheezed.

       When it was Matt’s turn, Dean carefully poured the salt into the man’s upturned palm before placing the flask of blessed water into Matt’s other hand.  “Cheers,” the lawyer quipped before following the routine Dean had dictated.

       Sam watched the others make faces of disgust, but no one else shared his allergic reaction to the salt water.  He excused himself to the bathroom again.  Once he was gone, the older brother sagged, falling forward onto his arms on the table with no more energy than a wrung out dishrag.  Dean gave himself maybe half a minute of despair before pushing back up and soldiering on.  “I’m gonna call around, see if Caleb or Pastor Jim know what to do about Sammy.  Turk and Kindergarten Cop will be here any minute.  Give ‘em an update.  Sam can’t be part of this.  I don’t…  I can’t…”

       “You can’t trust him,” Matt finished.

       “Not until I know more.  He’s opened himself wide to that demon’s influence.  He’s gotta stay away, stay safe until I figure out what that blood is gonna do and how to fix him.”  He stared at the money on the table.  His winnings that Josie had collected were scattered among the empty glasses and spilled salt.  He’d give it all to Sam and send him back to Stanford if he thought his little brother would be safer, but Sam was right, Dean led the monsters right to him.  Even tonight…if Dean had been doing his job…if he had been watching out for Sammy instead of hustling pool and pouting like a little bitch, he could have kept that monster away.  And Indiana…Meg was right.  Maybe Sam had gotten out of the car and told Dean to drive away, but it was Dean’s choice to actually do it.  One job.  He’d had one job…one purpose since he was four years old:  Keep Sammy safe.  Even from Dean and Dad.  It was why he’d let him go, drove by Stanford every few months and scouted about until he saw Sam was safe, and then driven on without making contact.  Of course he had tried calling, but after the first few months of Sam not picking up, it was easier the other way.  Better for Sam.  What had he been thinking dragging Sammy back into the life?

“       Dean, this isn’t your fault,” Josie voiced what everyone was thinking, but the young man didn’t even bother to argue, just turned and went to make his phone calls, disappearing into the thinning crowd.  Dean was good at disappearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a little heavy on plot, I know. I'll make it up to you. They will be leaving the bar soon!
> 
> Thanks so much to all of you who've read and especially to everyone who left kudos and comments and bookmarks, I'm so happy by the positive responses to this crossover! I hope you stick with me! I'll try to make it worth your time:)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 

       “So,” Foggy held up his hands, shaking his head with his eyes squeezed shut.  “Let me get this straight.  Tonight we decided we believe in demons, ghosts and boogeymen.  Decided that one of those things killed Meredith.  Decided to believe two pieces of eye-candy who claim to have spent their life hunting monsters.  One of whom – just throwing it out there – beat Bullseye at pool, conned him out of eight hundred dollars _and_ lived to tell the tale.  And based on that kid’s word we decided that the murders here in New York were just bait to lure these two twinks and their old man from Kansas into a supernatural showdown.  We decided that we met a demon who looked like a normal girl, a bitch, but a normal girl.  And then decided it would be a good idea to drink whatever hoodoo juice heretofore referenced eye-candy twink con artist poured us from his own private stash of _holy water_   (He made air quotes around the words).”  He tossed his hands up in the air.  “We’ve all gone insane.  Like that Batman movie where they bad guys sprayed something in the air and everyone went nuts and started seeing monsters.  We’re hallucinating.  I think I’m gonna check myself into St. Mungo’s in the morning except…oh, that’s right, I went to _Harvard_ , not Hogwarts!”  

       “So you don’t believe them?  You think Dean made all that up?” Karen turned in her seat, head tilted as she studied her friend, letting him catch his breath after that tirade.  I mean, sure, she didn't want to believe, but...  Let's just say she was going to be sleeping with the lights on for a long time.

       Foggy squirmed under her scrutiny.  “No!  Damnit!  I do believe him!” he pouted.  “That’s  the problem!”  He sat back down, sounding defeated, “I’ve had my eyes opened to a lot of impossible things, lately.  What’s one more?”  Matt knew there was a glare directed at him on Foggy’s face. 

       “Josie,” Matt turned himself in direction of the bar matron, “what are you wanting from us?”

       “I don’t know,” she admitted as she began to gather up the empty glasses and bottles.  “When I thought we were dealing with a real person, it was different.  You’re lawyers.  You know things, can find out things, do things to help that people like me can’t.  But now…I don’t know.  I don’t know that those boys do either.  That scares me.”

       “Brett’s here,” Karen informed the group as she glanced at the door and caught the new detective’s eye with a wave.

       “I see Josie’s dragged you guys into this mess too.  Have they told you about the demons yet?”

       “We even met one,” Foggy offered cheerfully.

       “Yeah, and they showed us a ghost.  I ain’t never seen anything like it before.  Are we sure these things aren’t chasing them?”

       “Actually, you may be right about that,” Matt informed him.

       Brett sat next to Matt in the seat Dean had vacated, not noticing the scowl that took up residency on Matt’s face.  He did a double-take when he saw the large number of bills and the shot glasses Josie was stacking on the table.  “Um…Josie?  I take it tips are good tonight?”

       “It belongs to Dean.”

       “Of course it does.” 

       “Dean beat Lester at pool.”  Matt waited for the announcement to sink in.

       “Of course he…  He did what?!” 

       “He hustled Bullseye and won.”

       “Shit.”  He shook his head.  “No calls came in to the station.  What’d you do with the body?”

       Josie chuckled, “I pulled his ass outta there before it got ugly, but…” her face turned serious.  “Lester’s on the warpath.  We need to keep Dean out of his way.  I kicked him out, so hopefully he’ll have moved on before Dean leaves tonight.”  Matt wasn’t taking any chances.  Dean was leaving with him.  For protection, of course.

       Brett gave Foggy a friendly punch in the shoulder as he sat down.  “Grandma’s as ornery as ever.  She’s about done with that last batch of cigars, man.  Y’all expect me to help you with Shaggy, Scooby and the monster of the week, the next batch better be Cubans.”

       “Did you find anything out about the other crime scenes?” Josie asked.

       “First let’s talk about your boys, Josie.”  Brett flipped open a file.  “Dean Winchester.”  There was a black and white printer copy of a mug shot which Brett passed around, Dean flirting with the camera like he didn’t have a care in the world.  “Campbell is his mother’s maiden name.  He’s wanted in eight states and by the FBI for grave desecration, assault, credit card fraud, arson, impersonating an officer, impersonating a federal agent and most recently, in California, he was the suspect in a murder, an attempted murder, kidnapping and torture.  Case was closed out because supposedly the victim shot him dead.  I had ‘em send me photos of the corpse.”  He distributed those as well.  “Sure looks like our boy.”

       “’Cause it was a shapeshifter,” Dean interrupted, coming from behind the group.  “They can make themselves look like anyone they want.”

       Matt was almost more startled than the rest.  He wasn’t used to someone sneaking up on him.  He blamed the damned cigarette smoke, Dean’s lack of cologne, Matt’s own focus on the officer, but…Matt realized the hunter had approached from downwind as well, if the air circulation of the room could be counted as wind.  If Dean had done that on purpose…Matt was impressed.

       “Silver bullet will take ‘em out, just like weres and most other shifters.  I’m the one who killed it.”  He gave a little laugh.  “That was weird.”  He pulled out his phone and fiddled with it for a second.  “Easier to let Becky take credit for the kill and let the cops think I was dead.”

       “That statute of limitations conversation with Sam makes a whole lot more sense now,” Foggy finished off the bottle of tequila, worm and all.

       Dean pointed to the phone number in Brett’s file for a Rebecca Warren then showed the officer his cell phone where he had pulled up the name Becky and the same number.  He pushed the button to dial the number while the others watched.  “Hey Becky!  It’s Dean Winchester…Yeah, Sammy’s fine…You got it…Again, I know…You mind?...Thanks.”  After a pause he handed the phone to the cop who listened to the young woman’s story.  Matt listened in as well, but once again Dean had passed Matt’s lie detector test.  Brett asked a few questions of the woman Dean had supposedly tied to a chair and tortured, before passing the phone back to Dean.  “Thanks, Becky…Yeah, I’ll tell it to Sam…I know he hopes to get back enrolled soon…Yeah, until next time…Bye.”

       He pointed to another place on the file.  “I was in Toledo when the other murders they pinned on me in California were committed.  Posing as Homeland Security and looking into a plane crash, if you want to be technical about it.  Another demon.  I got the number of the air traffic controller who asked me and Sam to take the case.  You want it?  You really don’t trust me, you can probably get me and Sammy’s pretty mugs off the airport security video where we caught a flight.”

       “Nah,” Brett said weakly.

       “We good?” Dean demanded.

       “Yeah…we’re…we’re good.”

       “Good,” Dean’s voice clearly indicated that the subject was dropped.  He closed his cell phone and put it back in his jacket.  “Now, get outta my seat.”

       It only took one look at the expression on Dean’s face, and Brett was scurrying to move his ass.  Once the seat was vacated, Dean grinned like the implied threat from moments before had never happened.  He scooted the chair several inches closer to Matt before sitting down, his leg and the lawyer’s once again touching and Matt’s own scowl replaced by something like smug amusement as he patted Dean’s already bouncing knee.  Brett stared open mouthed for a second until Dean caught the stare and his expression darkened again, making the cop quickly look away.  Foggy and Josie were barely holding back giggles while Karen’s eyes darted from Dean to Matt and back again in confusion.

       “Did you waste the whole fuckin’ day researchin’ my shady past or did you actually do your damn job?” Dean snapped at the detective.

       Brett looked shamefaced from the scolding, but he pulled out the next file.  “Crime scene photos.  You were right, and don’t think it doesn’t drive me crazy to say it.  You can connect the dots and make your _Z_ thing.  And, just like Meredith’s, all crime scenes were discovered locked from the inside, no prints, no tracks, no fiber evidence, no DNA, nothing under any of the vics nails though it was obvious they were fighting the killer from the defensive wounds found on their arms.  And no hearts.  Gone completely.”

       “Anything else?”

       “Yeah.  The banker.  Victim number two.  He had an alarm system like you wouldn’t believe.  Even had cameras.  They start flickering around the time of the murder.  You see shadows and you even see the vic standing there shouting at something.  Nothing but dark for about ninety seconds then, when the shadows go away, all you see is the blood and gore…and an arm.  Alarm never went off.”

       Turk had joined them by this point and his mission had been equally successful.  One of the local markets for all things witchy and weird, described a girl matching Meg’s description wearing a locket with the Zoroastrian symbol.

       “This is good, isn’t it?” Josie asked.

       “It’s too easy.  She wants us to find her,” Dean worried his lip between his teeth.  “I’ll let you bring them up to date on the details,” He advised his companions.  “I’m gonna go check on Sammy.”

       “Do you think that’s a good idea, considering?”  Karen reached out a hand across the table to stop him from rising even as Matt’s sharp tug on his jacket dropped his butt back into the seat.

       Foggy groaned, “I guess I’m back on puke patrol.  You owe me, Murdock.  You too, Winchester.”  He was back in less than five minutes, hands twisting in his own hair as he gazed at Dean with wide panicked eyes.  “He’s gone.  I can’t find Sam.”


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

 

       The responsibility fell upon Matt to keep Dean under control while the others quickly searched the bar and the outside alley for Sam.  “Stupid!  I should’ve known he’d do something like this!”  Dean wanted to flip tables and hear the sound of breaking glass, but he couldn’t do that to Josie.  He wanted to beat the living crap outta someone or take a crowbar to one of the plastic excuses for a real car parked out front, but he couldn’t do that to Brett.  He wanted to run away from his damn babysitter and find Sam himself, but he couldn’t do that to Matt.  Damn, life was a lot easier before Dean went and got himself saddled with friends.  A voice in his head that sounded like Sam, damn him, informed Dean that people he had known for only a few hours did not technically qualify as friends.  Dean told the voice to _Fuck off_.

       He’d busted one cell phone already, throwing it against the wall when neither Sam nor his Dad would answer.  Somebody needed to figure out a way to trace somebody through their cell phone quickly, then Dean could find people when they inevitably left him behind.

       Dean was a hand grenade with the pin pulled waiting for the right catalyst to explode.  Matt could feel the tension thrumming through the hunter’s skin and into the surrounding air.  He had little doubt that he could subdue Dean if he had to do so, but, if he wanted to avoid awkward questions about how he’d accomplished such a thing, he was wearing the wrong suit for the job.  Maybe Superman with his underoos and his phone booths had the right idea.  Of course, Matt a real guy, not a comic book character or an alien who was immune to injury; since he wasn’t bulletproof, he needed a suit that was, which made quick changes out of the question.  

       Dean’s erratic pacing was picking up speed.  That, Matt could see.  Um…eye sweat…matted Dean’s lashes into dark spikes, but thus far had yet to overflow the red rimmed banks of his big green eyes.  Matt could smell and taste the tears in the air, and hear the faint snuffle of Dean’s breath as his nose began to run.  Thankfully, the others came back quickly though they were empty-handed.

       Since Sam hadn’t shared Meg’s address before he bolted, Brett had called into the station, looking for property or utilities in the name of Meg Masters and come up with no leads.  While he was on the line, he asked the dispatch officer to do an NCIC search for a Meg, Megan, or Margaret Masters of Andover, Massachusetts.  A missing person’s report had been filed on a Margaret Elizabeth Masters of Andover a week and a half after Jess died.  Her family hadn’t seen or heard from her since the day Sam and Dean hit the road together to find their Dad and hunt down Jess’ killer.  Goddamn demons!  Had they been watching them the whole time?

       At this point, whether he believed in ghosts or demons or not, Brett couldn’t deny that the Winchesters had given the police a _person of interest_ to the investigation.  After sharing the symbol and Meg’s possession of a locket bearing the unique design, the real cops began their own hunt for the girl.  Turk promised he would check back with the shop owner in the morning and see if she had any more information.  Calling in a few favors, Brett provided Sam’s description to some friends in patrol and organized a stake out of the brothers’ motel room.  Dean was grateful to his newfound comrades who had thrown themselves into the hunt, but…

       “So where am I supposed to go if cops are watching my stuff?”

       “You’re coming home with me, to the world’s most uncomfortable couch.” Matt informed him in a voice that would accept no negotiation.  “You can’t go chasing after Sam yourself until he’s come down from the demon high.  He’ll just run from you or, worse yet, try and hurt you.  Lester wants to hurt you and the demon girl wants you dead too.”

       “Welcome to my life, man.  I don’t care.”  He really didn’t.  Death threats had lost their power over him years ago.

       “Well, I do.” 

       Dean tripped.  He quickly began pacing again, but it lacked his earlier intensity and his eyes kept darting to the attorney, tracking his movements, though Matt made the job easy by standing still.  Feeling like a kid at his first haunted house, Dean swore the eyes behind the glasses were watching him too.

       Matt went on as if the matter were settled:  “You can keep trying to reach Sam and your Dad on their phones.  If your experts haven’t found the right exorcism ritual by the morning, I’ll take you to the Columbia library and see what we can track down ourselves.”

       Unless he was posing as a cop or a priest, no one invited Dean into their homes.  Except for Pastor Jim and Caleb, even other hunters were wary of the Winchester clan, though in large part that was John’s fault.  Dean looked at the lawyer as if he might be possessed...or Santa Claus…a possessed Santa Claus.  He waited for the catch.  Sex maybe?  Women and men had done nice things for Dean before in exchange for sex.  The man was good-looking and he smelled nice so Dean didn’t think it would be too difficult to get it up.  Or maybe the guy wanted to fuck him.  In his experience bottoming wasn’t always pleasant, but a lot less was expected of him when he bottomed, so he was less likely to disappoint…he didn’t want to disappoint.  He shook himself.  He couldn’t go anywhere while Sam was missing.  How could he even think about it?

       “Thanks, but…”

       The lawyer didn’t let him finish.  He didn’t for one instant think Dean wasn’t going to put up a fight.  “The alternative is a pair of handcuffs and a holding cell for safekeeping overnight.  You’re not gonna be a lot of help to Sam or anyone else like that, but you’ll be protected.”

       “I don’t need protection,” Dean snarled.  “I’m the one doing the…”

       “One,” Matt intoned firmly.

       “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

       “Two.”  On cue, Brett slid out the cuffs so Dean could see.  The cop was enjoying this.

       “Gonna put me over your knee when you get to three?” the hunter jeered.

       “Do you want me to?”

       Dean had to bite back a whine that could have been from either frustration or…a different kind of frustration.  Big Dean and ~~Little~~ Not-So-Big Dean were not on the same page.  He settled for scowling at the lawyer, not caring if Matt couldn’t see.  And damn if Matt wasn’t blushing as well. 

       The others tried to pretend they weren’t watching the standoff intently.  By some silent and unanimous vote, they all agreed that Dean shouldn’t be left alone.  They didn’t share Dean’s cavalier attitude towards the death threats and they had each come to the sad realization that they valued his life far more than he did.  It was a dangerous combination.  But Matt’s methods…   

       “Three.”  As Matt hit the final number on the countdown, Brett stepped forward.

       Dean hurried away from the cop to press close to Matt’s side and gratefully accepted the lawyer’s hand on the small of his back.  It definitely didn’t mean he was happy.  “I’m hating you right now,” he growled, not quite under his breath.

       Jail terrified Dean.  He’d spent a week in juvie once, picked up for shoplifting a jar of peanut butter.  Dad had let him rot.  When social services discovered the house where he’d been living was vacant and the only number Dean had for his father was out of service, he was released to a group home for boys where he stayed for six months until John showed up with Sammy and the Impala to take him back.  He needed help with a hunt.  It took a week to recover from the beating John gave him, another month to heal from the infection caused by the werewolf’s claws.  Dean still had the scars…the ones that could be seen and the ones that couldn’t.  He never did go back to school.  By that time, he was sixteen.  He got a job, helped with the bills and tried to make himself useful to his father.           

       Karen was the first to object to the arrangement.  “Matt, are you sure about this?”  Dean heard:  _Matt, I don’t trust this stranger with you_.  

       “He’s gonna run as soon as you get out of the bar,” Brett warned. Another vote of no confidence in Dean, but Dean had expected it from the cop.

       “I’ve got a spare bedroom upstairs from the bar,” Josie offered.  “You’re welcome to stay here, Dean.”  Hell.  Did these people think he’d hurt the blind dude or steal from him?  He may have just met them, but aside from Sam they were…  _Not friends_ , the Sam-sounding voice in Dean’s head declared smugly.  _I told you so._

       “Can we go now?” There were too many emotions fighting to get out, strangling the green-eyed hunter’s words to a near whisper.

       “Of course, Dean.”  Matt surprised him by returning all his weapons which he checked over and placed back in the appropriate pockets.

       Foggy tugged his friend out of Dean’s ear shot.  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

       “You want him out there hunting demons on his own with Bullseye on the prowl?”

       “I don’t want you out there hunting demons at all!  Especially with Bullseye on the prowl!”

       “No one’s hunting anything tonight.  I’m just giving him a place to sleep.”

       Foggy’s eyebrow arched so high it threatened to fly away.  “Josie offered him a place here.”

       “He’d be gone as soon as she turned her back.”

       “He’s a grown man, Matt.  It’s his choice.  Instead you threatened to have him thrown in jail if he didn’t go with you!  And you had Brett right there ready to follow through.”  Foggy became aware that he was starting to raise his voice.  He wiped his hands over his face and took a few deep breaths.  “There’s a big difference between that and taking a fucking shot glass out of his hand.  I know damn well you don’t need me to tell you he was terrified.  I could see him shaking worse’n my Uncle Jerry with Parkinson’s.”

       “But…”

       “I’m not done yet,” Foggy snapped.  Matt was startled by his friend’s rage.  “Wilson Fisk was a bully.  Lester is a bully.  You’re supposed to be one of the good guys, Matt!”

       Matt’s head bowed under the weight of the truth.  “I just don’t want him to get hurt, Foggy.  He’s been hurt enough for one night.  Hell, he’s been hurt enough for one lifetime,” Matt’s voice cracked. 

       Foggy shook his head.  “You’ve got it bad.”  He reached out and placed a supportive hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “Use your brain, man,” he pleaded.  You know this isn’t likely to end well.  I don’t want to see _you_ hurt.”

       “But…?”  Matt asked hopefully.  “You know I can hear it when you’re not telling me the whole truth.”

       “Damnit, Matt!  You know I hate that!”  He sighed, “But you’re right, you asshole.  The other side to that is, I love you, event though I wish I could punch you sometimes.  Unfortunately, you may be a ninja warrior badass, but you’re still a blind guy and I’d feel like a dick if I gave in to the urge.  So count yourself lucky, man.”

       Matt felt the smile touch the corners of his mouth, “I do.”

       Foggy smiled too, the hand on Matt’s shoulder, giving him a few firm pats.  “Then go get your man.  I just gave him the chance to run and he didn't take it.  It’s pretty damn obvious he’s got it just as bad.  Just…be careful, Matt, for both your sakes.  I’m pretty sure Dean’s got more triggers than a spaghetti western.”

       Matt’s smile turned into a grin.  “Foggy…?”

       His friend groaned.  “Why do you even ask anymore?  You know one of your super senses has to be some kind of hotness detector.  You never pick the ugly ones.”  He leaned in and spoke closer to Matt’s ear:  “Green eyes.  Do you remember what the sky looks like before a summer thunderstorm?  That greenish golden glow?”

       Matt had closed his eyes.  He searched his memory before nodding, prompting Foggy to continue.  “His hair was probably really blond when he was a kid, but now it’s that dark, not quite brown color.  Freckles.  They’re barely there, it took me awhile to notice them even after Josie’s introduction, but they’re everywhere.”  He leaned back.  “The rest of it, you’re just going to have to figure out for yourself…that is _IF_ he forgives you for being a jerk about the whole night in the slammer thing.”    

       Matt winced.  “Not one of my better moments, you’re right.”

       “So does this make me like Alfred to your Batman?  Official conscience and bullshit detector?”

       “You want to quit law to move in and be my butler?”

       “Let’s talk compensation packages.”  Foggy put an arm around Matt’s shoulders as they walked back to where Dean stood stiff and strange with a horrified expression on his face, Josie’s strong arms encircling him in an embrace and not allowing him to escape.  Foggy gave his friend’s back a bolstering slap, before leaving Matt to deal with that situation while he went back to the table where Karen, Turk and Brett were discussing the day’s events. 

       Dean was surprised when Josie hugged him, his eyes searching desperately for a way out.   He was not looking for the asshole, Matt Murdock, with his smooth voice and ruffled hair and strong hands and…okay, so yeah, he was looking for him.  “Relax, angelface, I’m not gonna bite you.”  She thought she felt a twitch in his left wrist which was as close as she suspected he’d get to calming down any time soon.  Not that she blamed him.  “And I’m not gonna let anyone take you to jail.  You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to, Dean.  I mean it.  You can stay in the room upstairs.  No charge.  There’s even an extra bed for Sam when he gets back.  You can go back to your hotel room.  Brett can call off the stake out or make sure the other officers know to leave you alone.  Or you can walk out that door and go look for Sam.  I know you want to.”

       She felt his head nodding against her shoulder.

       “But, honey, let me ask you this:  Do you have any idea where to look for him?”

       Dean’s silence was answer enough.

       “Matt gave you some good advice.  Keep trying to reach Sam by phone and get some rest.  That’s the best thing you can do tonight.  Hopefully, things will be brighter in the morning and maybe Sam will be himself again.”

       Still no response from Dean, but maybe she felt him give another twitch and breathe just a bit deeper.  The twitch became a jolt when Matt put a hand on his back.  “Hey, you okay?”  The lawyer’s steady voice reached out to soothe Dean’s jagged nerves.

       Dean rubbed his face on Josie’s soft flannel covered shoulder before lifting up his head from where it had come to rest.  He wasn’t crying.  He wasn’t…but it never hurt to take precautions.  “M’fine.”  Josie finally lowered her arms, but made no move to step back.

       “You don’t have to go with him either,” she informed Dean in a voice loud enough for Matt to hear as well.

       The reprimand in her tone brought a stain of pink to the lawyer’s cheeks, but he nodded his agreement.  “She’s right, Dean.  Foggy’s already chewed me out too.  I’m sorry for letting you think I’d have Brett take you into custody.  You can add manipulative dick to my resume’, right behind pretentious asshole.”  The apology didn’t seem to soften the hunter.  “The offer still stands though…I just…I didn’t want you to be alone.”

       “Okay.”

       “Okay?” Matt repeated.

       “S’ what I said, isn’t it,” Dean grumbled.  “’Cept you’re makin’ it up to me by letting me have the bed.  You can sleep on your own uncomfortable couch.”

       “Deal,” Matt grinned like a little boy on a snow day and Dean ducked his head, feeling guilty…he planned to ditch the lawyer and find Sammy…not that it wouldn’t be fun to go home with Matt and…well…  In spite of Sam’s insinuations, the last person Dean had slept with was Cassie.  That had been months ago.  In fact Cassie was the only person Dean had slept with since Sam had joined him on the search for Dad.

       “You’re sure about this?” Josie asked the young man she’d grown overly fond of during the course of the day.

       “Not a virgin, Mom.  You’re a few years late to be giving me _the talk_.”  Dean smirked, easily ducking under the playful swing of the bartender’s smacking hand. 

       She captured him anyway, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead and laughing as he made a show of growling and scrubbing it off.  “I’d like to see you back tomorrow, sweetness, but I know that ain’t your style.  You be careful out there.”

       Dean’s smirk faded into a sad but honest smile and this time he returned the woman’s embrace…and maybe let his own lips brush her freckled cheek. 

       The attorney collected his briefcase and cane and held out his arm.  He wanted the contact with Dean to satisfy his own lack of faith in the younger man.  He knew, without using any of what Foggy called his super senses, that Dean was a flight risk, and, even though he had heard and respected Foggy’s lecture, he didn’t know what he would do when the proverbial rubber hit the road.

       Dean turned down the proffered elbow.  “Dude, I ain’t your friggin’ prom date.”  Quite frankly, Matt would have been surprised had Dean taken his arm.  He was even more surprised, however, when Dean slid a hand into Matt’s and let himself be tugged out the door. 

       “Do you live far?” Dean asked once they were on the sidewalk and Matt turned them to the left. 

       “A few blocks.” 

       They were quiet, but noise surrounded them like a fog.  There always seemed to be the wail of a siren from somewhere nearby or music escaping from the opening of a door as someone else stumbled out of a bar or a party and into the street.  Dean heard friends yelling greetings and goodbyes in the distance, a yowling cat on the prowl, a clatter of trashcans down a dark alley, a couple fighting, a baby crying, church bells tolling the hour...  He thought he’d go mad if he had to live in the city and listen to the incessant _noise_.  The _tap, tap, tap_ , of Matt’s cane was a small sound and if Dean focused on it, the other noises seemed to disappear.  It even calmed the voices in his head where he was still ripping himself to pieces over the events of the night. 

       That was when Dean heard the footsteps behind them.

       Matt could tell when Dean realized they were being followed.  The gun in his hand was a pretty big clue.  With reflexes almost as fast as Matt’s own, Dean had drawn his pistol, taken up the silver knife in his other hand, and placed himself in front of the blind man.  When he saw the bald bear of a man from the bar, he relaxed only somewhat.  Matt could hear the crunch of the toothpick held between the teeth of the psychotic mercenary.  He could also hear the suddenly quickening of his heart beat.  Once again, Dean had taken the killer by surprise.  Of course, he’d taken Matt by surprise as well, and Matt’s hope to avoid any confrontation with Lester was about to be shot to hell…literally.

       “Man, get over it.  You lost.  Happens to all of us.”  The barrel of the pistol never wavered.

       “Pretty little thing like you ain’t got the sack to pull a trigger.  You ain’t no killer.”

       “That’s right.  I’m an exterminator.”  The thing is though, Lester was human and Dean wasn’t sure that the man wasn’t right.

       “Aren’t you still on probation, Lester?”  Matt kept himself behind Dean so as not to distract the hunter, but made sure he had Bullseye in view so that all of his observation skills were in play.  “Out a bit past curfew, hmmm?  Gambling?  Making threats?  Those are some serious violations.”

       “Maybe I’ll just hire you to represent me, Mr. Murdock.”

       Matt wasn’t surprised that the man knew his name, but it didn’t necessarily inspire warm fuzzies either.  “All my clients are innocent.  I’m afraid I’d have to turn you down.”

       “Well, I guess I better be heading home then.”  He made no move to leave.  His eyes shone like oil slicks in the light.  “What’s your name, pretty?  For when we meet again.”

       “I ain’t gonna be in town long enough for that to matter,” Dean informed him.

       “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh, pretty?  Ain’t gonna be no rematch?  We’ll see about that.”

       “Are we still talkin’ about pool?”  If the situation wasn’t potentially lethal, Matt would have laughed at Dean’s confusion.  “Dude, I’ll play you any time.  Not likely to bet $800 again though.  Let’s say Saturday night?  That gives me time to gank a few fuglies and send ‘em crawlin’ back to hell.”

       “You makin’ fun of me, pretty?  I think I’ll get my $800 back by carving you up and sellin’ the pieces.”

       “What the fuck, dude?  It was a game.  Don’t play if you can’t handle losin’ sometimes, you crazy ass mother fucker.  Now get the hell outta here before my trigger finger starts crampin’.”

       To Dean, the gesture was meaningless:  Bullseye took the toothpick from between his lips and made as if to flick it away.  Matt feigned a stumble and knocked Dean out of the path of the small projectile.  Unaware of the close call, Dean quickly righted himself and the lawyer carefully with both the gun and the knife still in his hands.  That done, he turned back to Lester.  He was beginning to understand why everyone had been so freaked out over his hustle, the guy was nuts.  And he was gone.  Dean scanned the area, with both his eyes and ears and deemed they were alone.  Matt had heard Bullseye’s retreat, but he listened to see if the man was returning or circling around to intercept them again.

       “Shit!  You’re bleeding!”  The weapons disappeared and Dean reached out a hand to the growing stain spreading across Matt’s white shirt and found the toothpick embedded in the center.  “Holy shit,” his whisper held both admiration for the talent and disgust with the fleeing man.

       “And that’s why he’s called Bullseye,” Matt commented dryly as Dean extracted the toothpick from his chest.  “This was just him having a little fun.  He likes to play with his targets, study them, before making his real move.”

       “You pushed me out of the way.”  It was practically an accusation.

       “I tripped,” Matt lied.  “You must have a guardian angel.”

       Dean’s subsequent snort of contempt was so deep it made him sneeze.  “Angels aren’t real.”

       “But if there are demons…?” 

       “Who knows?  Maybe angels died out or were killed off.  Maybe they just don’t give a fuck.”  Dean tossed the toothpick to the ground.  “Let’s get you home so you can clean up.”  He moved to the opposite side of the attorney in consideration of Matt’s injury and once again twined their fingers together.

       “Good idea.  I think I smell a storm coming.” 

       The streetlights were a smudge of yellow chalk dust on a clean blackboard.  No stars shown on New York City.  The darkness was no hardship for them, Matt easily guided them over curbs and rough paving and across streets, and even around people – the drunk curled up next to a building whose legs encroached upon the sidewalk, the couple walking towards them too busy whispering sweet nothings in each others’ ears to keep their path straight, the kids with colors wrapped around their heads blocking the sidewalk as they drank beer and listened to their music.  They called out to Matt with familiarity and he called back, identifying the boys by name.

       “How long have you been blind?” Dean asked.

       “Since I was nine.  There was a car accident and chemicals got into my eyes.”

       “You move so…graceful - I guess is the word - that I forget you can’t see.”

       Dean couldn’t see the smile his words put on the other man’s face.  “I know.”  Dean felt the hand holding his squeeze just a bit tighter.  “It’s nice.” 

       Nice.  Pie was nice.  Good pie was freakin’ awesome.  Decent water pressure and enough hot water for a long shower was nice.  Driving the Impala with Zep blastin’ out of the tape deck on a winding road when the leaves were painted in autumn splendor with Sammy, the big moose, grinning at him from the passenger seat…that was better than nice.  Dean didn’t have a lot of nice in his life, but few hunters did.  Walking with his hand inside Matt’s on a spring night in New York with the smell of rain in the air as heat lightning flashed through the sky…that was nice too, he decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 100 kudos in a week! Thanks so much for all the positive feedback. I hope you keep reading and keep liking the story!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

 

       “Why?”  Matt’s question startled Dean out of his pleasant thoughts as they continued their walk at a leisurely pace.

       “Gotta be a little more specific, counselor,” Dean teased.

       “Why live the life you do?”

       “Why did you become a lawyer?” the hunter countered quickly.

       The lawyer in Matt rankled, but rather than object to Dean answering a question with a question, Matt put himself in the other’s place.  Willingly disclosed and not, Matt and his friends were now privy to a significant amount of personal information about the Winchester brothers, but the crew from Hell’s Kitchen had yet to reciprocate as much.  He answered Dean’s question: “I wanted to change things.  My Dad was a boxer, but you only got to fight if you played by the rules.  The first rule was that the fix was in.  Most matches, the fighters knew before the bell rang who would win and in what round.  You ever wanted to fight again, you did what you were told.  I was just a kid.  I didn’t know about the rules.  It hadn’t been a year since I lost my sight and Dad was offered a fight that could make him famous.  Dad was my hero.  I knew he could win.  He knew he could win.  He was told to lose.”  He hadn’t told the story in a long time.  So many years had passed…but obviously not enough. 

       Matt was surprised to find himself making fists as he spoke, the muscles in his jaw aching as he tried to keep his voice calm.  He let go of Dean’s hand.  “My Dad just wanted to be the man he was supposed to be.  He called me to tell me he won the match.  Told me he loved me…  They gunned him down in an alley minutes later.” 

       Matt had to stop walking and he struggled to swallow past the lump in his throat.  Dean took one of the man’s knotted fists, holding it with both of his hands, and massaging the curled fingers until they opened.  Matt’s throat opened at the same time and the choking feeling was gone as suddenly as it had come.  He raised his open hand to cradle Dean’s cheek, and the hunter turned his head just enough to press his lips to the center of the lawyer’s palm.  Matt moved his hand as he leaned in, guiding Dean so that their lips met. 

       God…  Matt groaned without breaking the kiss.  Why hadn’t Foggy told him?  Dean’s lips were so full and soft, and they yielded to Matt’s so sweetly.  Touching them wasn’t enough, he had to taste.  His tongue swept over the hunter’s plush mouth, tasting salt and beer.  His hand slipped to the back of Dean’s head and he clutched at the short hair to hold him still as Matt took Dean’s lower lip and sucked it into his mouth. 

       Dean’s faint whimper was Matt’s undoing.  He pushed the younger man against the side of a porch stoop, cushioning his head.  His tongue entered Dean’s mouth and claimed it as Dean gave only a brief token resistance before melting, his mouth opening wider in invitation and his body molding itself to Matt’s. 

       As the first raindrops fell, Matt licked the sweet tasting water from Dean’s face, before tucking Dean’s head against his shoulder so they could both find their breath again.  The rain was only a soft patter, cool against their heated skin.  Still stealing the occasional raindrop from Dean’s cheeks, Matt’s gentle voice was just another caress as he took up where he left off:  “I became a lawyer because it was the only way I thought I could get revenge.  Those same fixers and crime bosses are gone, but there are others who took their place.”

       Dean’s arms mysteriously found their way around Matt as Dean certainly didn't do it on purpose.  “Does it make you happy?”

       The smile on the lawyer’s face was crooked.  If Dean could have seen it, he would have found it familiar, a smile that he saw reflected in his own mirror all too often.  “Some days I’m content.  Other days I drink too much.  Or I fight.  And always I wonder what Dad would think about what I’ve become.”

       Content.  Even Dean knew it wasn’t the same thing as happy.  Dean held Matt close and allowed himself to be held in return.  He tried not to think about the kiss…or was it kisses…they all blended together seamlessly.  He tried not to want more even as he tightened his arms around the lawyer.  Matt’s suit coat lacked the warmth of Dean’s leather jacket and flannel.  When Dean felt the lawyer shiver he finally burst their perfect bubble:  “I thought you were gonna say you wanted to help people or some shit like that.”

       Matt chuckled, letting his hand slide through Dean’s damp hair and then slicking back his own as he stepped away, leaving only their fingers still touching.  “Ah, the Miss America answer,” Matt’s smile was warmer this time.  “Of course, I became a lawyer to stick up for the little guy and defeat corruption.  Truth.  Justice.  The American way.”  He bumped shoulders with Dean as they began walking again, neither mentioning the kiss.  “All that shit.”

       “And world peace.”  Dean bumped back.

       “Of course.” 

       The rain picked up in intensity and the thunder grew louder, though it was still some distance away.  They were both wet, but both were sorry when Matt stopped them outside an old brick apartment building.  “This is it,” Matt advised as he began to climb up the front steps.  Dean didn’t follow and his fingers slipped out of Matt’s grasp.  “Dean?”

       The walk had been nice, and Dean could lie to himself and pretend he had cooperated with the journey solely to escape the others and scout the area for his brother.  The untruth had kept him from running immediately like Brett had predicted.  And the kiss…  Not following the man who had kissed him was making his chest ache, but now that they had reached their destination it was time for Dean to stop being selfish, stop wasting time.  “I gotta find, Sammy.”  Dean felt sick, his eyes darting back and forth between Matt’s lips and the bloody patch staining his shirt.   

       Matt seemed unfazed.  “I still owe you a half a beer.  Come inside.  Try to reach your Dad and Sam again.  If you still want to leave, you can…if…”

       “If?”

       “If I can’t convince you to stay.”  He held out his hand.

       “You can’t.”  Even as he said the words, Dean reached out and took Matt’s hand again.

       “Don’t be so sure.”  The lawyer spoke mostly to himself, a smug smile on his face that he tried to hide from Dean as he hauled the younger man up the remaining stairs, and entered the building.  Matt lived on the top floor and the elevator chugged its way up, gears grinding in a way that made the mechanic grit his teeth and remember his fear of heights.  The old building retained several of its original features, high ceilings, exposed brick and dark stained wood, thick walls and floors, glass in the windows so old it rippled. 

       As the elevator door creaked open Dean leapt out of the death trap, not waiting for Matt to lead the way.  There were only four apartments at the uppermost level.  As Dean waited for Matt to unlock his door he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement.  If he hooked up for sex it was generally in a seedy hotel room, the backseat of the Impala, a restroom or back alley.  He was welcome at Pastor Jim’s and at Caleb’s.  There were other hunters his Dad had befriended over the years, the Harvelles and Bobby Singer, but John had a way of burning bridges and Dean hadn’t seen any of them in nearly twenty years.  Entering someone’s home was a big deal to Dean.  When he was on a case posing as a Fed, he wandered through houses opening doors, picking up knickknacks for closer observation, rooting through the family’s junk drawer… Hey, junk drawers are fascinating.   As long as he kept his brows drawn together and lips tight in an expression of deep concentration ( _or constipation_ , Sam teased) the homeowners let him be, thinking he was scouting for clues. 

       Even with his enhanced senses, Matt wasn’t a mind reader and he wondered what the other man was thinking to bring about a case of the kid-in-a-candy-store fidgets.  The door opened and Dean barely held back from pushing in ahead of Matt.  The attorney chuckled, “If you were a puppy, I‘d be worrying about puddles on my carpet right now.”  When he was answered by silence, he couldn’t hold back the twitch at the corner of his mouth.  “You’re giving me the finger again, aren’t you?” 

       Matt only bothered with the light switch when he had company which occurred so rarely he had to fumble for it, his hand brushing against the wall in a wide swath until his fingers tweaked the small lever that gave the room a weak bath of golden light.  Actually, the sign on a nearby rooftop advertising a Chinese airline in giant ice blue neon provided more than enough light.  Enough that no one else had wanted the apartment and Matt had been able to easily afford it, an accomplishment in New York City, even in Hell’s Kitchen.  The rain on the window mottled the neon glow.  Staring directly into the light for a moment, Dean found he had spots floating in front of his eyes when he turned away.  The apartment was essentially the one room with three doors which led to the coat closet, bathroom and bedroom, Matt explained, taking advantage of Dean’s distraction to strip the hunter of his jacket.  “I thought about buying artwork once, but I couldn’t do it.  I know it’s not much, but…”

       “Dude, I live out of my car.”  Dean’s comment cut short the other man’s attempt at playing the humble host.  “Can I check everything out?”

       “Be my guest.”

       Dean did give a huff at that.  “Guests are free to leave.”

       Matt cocked his head.  “I’m gonna call your bluff, Winchester.  You haven’t even tried to ditch me once.  I think you like…”  Dean’s cell phone began to ring.  The change in energy was palpable in the air.  “Dean?  Is it Sam?”

       “Yes, sir,” Dean spoke brusquely as he flipped open his phone.  The opposite of a falsetto, but still just as fake, Dean’s voice dropped into a deeper register and became gruff, biting off words like plugs of tobacco or beef jerky or something equally macho.  Dean crossed the large room to stand in the kitchen area, putting some distance between himself and Matt, and Matt, for his part, pretended that he couldn’t hear every word of the conversation.

       “Dean, I told you not to call me.  I expect you to follow orders, son.”

       “I know, sir, but this was important.”

       “It better be.”

       Dean gave his father an efficient summary of the murders which brought the Winchesters to town, the Lawrence connection and the daeva as the man gave an occasional grunt.

       “So why did you feel the need to put all our lives at risk by calling me?  You know how close I am to finally catching up to the demon that killed your mother?  What is more important than that, Dean?”

       “Sam’s missing.”

       “Where is he?”

       “If I knew that he wouldn’t be missing!”

       “Don’t take that tone of voice with me,” the elder Winchester threatened as Dean cringed.  “How could you let this happen, Dean?”

       “It gets worse.”  Matt could smell the sour stench of guilt and fear emanating from Dean.  He told his father about Meg Masters, the effect her blood had on his brother, and how that led to Sam being in the restroom of Josie’s where he likely sneaked out the back door.

       “You didn’t notice that a goddamn demon’s been tailing you for six months?  How sloppy have you gotten since I left you?”

       Dean offered no excuses, just bowed his head under the criticism. 

       “You let this demon bitch escape and you left your brother unsupervised knowing he was suffering from an outside influence?  A demonic influence?”

       “I’m sorry, sir.”

       “Goddamn right you’re sorry!  And you’ll be even sorrier when more people die because you didn’t do your job!”

       “If Caleb and Pastor Jim haven’t found the exorcism ritual for the daeva by the morning, I’m going to the library on Columbia’s campus to start looking myself.”

       “You better.  You may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, Dean, but that doesn’t mean you’re excused from research.  I won’t have you slackin’ off and bein’ lazy and taking advantage of Caleb and Jim.”

       “I won’t, sir.  They’re good to me.”

       “Now, where all have you looked for Sam?”

       “We searched the bar and the alley.  There’s police staking out the hotel room.  I’ve walked a few blocks with my eyes open, but it’s such a big city.  I keep calling his cell, but he must have it turned off.”

       “Damnit, Dean!  I don’t want to hear excuses.  Stop whining and find your brother before he gets hurt.  I thought you learned this lesson when you were eight!”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “I expected more from you, son.”

       “Yes, sir.  I’m sor…”  His Dad hung up the phone.

       It took effort for Matt to pretend he couldn’t hear Dean’s father.   He had removed his shoes, suit jacket, shirt and tie during the conversation.  He currently held the tie with an end wrapped in each fist and pulled taut as if he was preparing to strangle someone.  “That was your Dad?”

       “Yes, sir,” Dean answered on autopilot before he caught himself.

       “Where is he?”

       “He didn’t say.”

       “Is he coming to help?”

       “No.”  The word was hollow and hurt.

       Matt had known the answers to the questions, but asking the questions was part of keeping his own secret.  He approached the other man, entering the kitchen area where Dean stood with his back to the stove.  Distracting Dean with a kiss was a failure.  Dean turned his head away and placed a hand on Matt’s chest to force him to keep his distance, but the gesture drew Dean’s attention to the bloody undershirt Matt was still wearing.

       “Do you have a first aid kit?” 

       “In the bathroom.”

       “Come on.”

       Dean had expected Matt Murdock’s first aid kit to include peroxide, cotton balls, and a few bandaids.  Once Matt peeled off the plain undershirt, Dean learned why the blind man needed a full suture kit with packs of sterile dressing, a swarm of butterfly clips, and enough ACE bandages for a pyramid full of Egyptian mummies.  “Jesus,” he breathed out the word in awe.  With a barely there touch of his fingers, he traced the scars that riddled the lawyer’s torso as if someone had tried to rip him apart (and if Dean strayed from the scars to outline the muscles that defined Matt’s chest and abs…Well, Matt wasn’t complaining).  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been toe to toe with a wendigo.” 

       “The accident…”

       “Bullshit.  These scars aren’t that old.”

       Matt waited too long to come up with a better answer.

       “I get it."  He really did.  "You don’t have to tell me.  Just let me take care of you.”  The wound was too small to need stitches.  Dean cleaned it thoroughly because…a toothpick?!  That was just disgusting.  He topped off his work with a Ninja Turtle bandaid.  “Um…who did your shopping?”

       “Claire.  She’s a nurse.  A friend I call to patch me back together when I need it.  Last time I went to court with a Disney princess over my eyebrow.  What is it now?”

       “Ninja Turtles.”

       “It’s an improvement.”  Matt was seated on the bathroom counter top, Dean standing between his thighs.  It was the perfect position for him to tilt Dean’s chin up.  “I’m going to kiss you.”  Their mouths were already close enough that his lips moved against Dean’s as he spoke.

       “Please.”  The whisper was soft even to Matt’s ears.

       It was just as perfect as before…until Matt began to unbutton Dean’s shirt.  That’s when he found his fingers closing on empty air, nearly falling off the counter it happened so fast.  “Dean, wait!”  He followed the fleeing man.                        

       Dean spun around to face the man who stood between him and his duty and Matt skidded to a stop to prevent a collision.  His sensitive ears and the changes in temperature, tension and air pressure allowed him to determine the shape of the man and the way his fists opened and closed.  He could hear the creak of a jaw clamped tightly closed for fear something might escape. 

       Dean hated himself even more than he usually did…which was saying something.  His Dad was right.  Because of him, Sammy was in trouble.  Because of him, more people might die.  He’d exposed civilians to the supernatural because he was too stupid to keep his cover and too incompetent to work the case without their help.  What if they became the demon’s next targets?  What was he doing here letting a blind man offer him protection?  This was Dean’s job!  Saving people, hunting things.  He wasn’t smart.  He wasn’t good.  The only accounting he could give of his life whenever some monster finally got the best of him was going to be the lives he’d saved versus the ones he didn’t.  If people died because of Dean, he was no better than one of the creatures he hunted.  Maybe he didn’t have any leads on Sammy, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to find any if he wasn’t looking.  He had to get out of there.

       Dean reached for his jacket, suddenly finding the lawyer blocking his path to the door.  _Stupid_ , he cursed himself for being too busy cursing himself that he hadn’t watched where he was going.  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.  “I can’t stay.”

       “Dean…” Matt placed himself back into Dean’s path as the hunter attempted to step around him.  “You don’t have a lead.  You can’t go back to your motel room.  It's pouring down rain.  Even if you do find your brother, chances are he might try and hurt you.  What do you think you can do out there?”

       “I can’t not try, damnit!”  Dean moved another step to the side in an attempt to bypass the attorney, only to have Matt mirror his movements again.  “Stop it.”

       “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

       “Why?”  The confusion in Dean’s voice was plain.

       “Because we need your help.”  There were other reasons Matt could have given that would all have been true, but he had observed enough to know there was only one that mattered to Dean.

       “I’m not quitting the job.  I’ll be at Josie’s in the morning; anytime you tell me to,” Dean pleaded.  “Sam’s not a job, Matt.  He’s family.”

       Fuck it.  “Then I’m going with you.”

       “What?”  Dean shook his head to clear his ears, certain that he hadn’t heard right due to the rumble of thunder that rattled the windows.

       “You heard right,” Matt could easily figure what the man was thinking as he heard the miniscule pop of joints and rustle of cloth against skin, the noises of Dean’s attempt to shake himself back to sanity.  “I know Hell’s Kitchen.  If the demon picked Meredith and was at Josie’s tonight, then she’s living in my neighborhood, and I’ll find her.”

       Dean didn’t have time to tactfully convince a blind man that demon hunting was a bad idea.  He moved again…and found himself none to gently shoved over the arm of a (very uncomfortable) sofa, air knocked out of his lungs, arms wrenched tightly behind his back, legs and hips pinned by the solid press of another body. 

       Goddamnit.  Under any other circumstances, Matt would have been uttering a prayer of thanksgiving for having Dean Winchester’s firm round ass pressed against the front of his trousers, but now was not the time.  Unfortunately, Dean chose that moment to begin struggling which had that ass bucking and wiggling against Matt’s crotch as the hunter also began gasping for air to refill his lungs.  The combination resulted in Matt’s dick thinking this was an excellent time to reveal its interest in the young hunter. 

       Just as quickly as Dean’s brain took notice of Matt’s arousal, the lawyer shoved himself back, freeing Dean from his vulnerable position, but not without first administering a hard wallop to the tempting denim clad bottom.  The younger man got his feet under him and stood, coughing as he still fought to regain his breath.  “How did you do that?” Dean demanded in a raspy voice.  Would he sound like that the morning after?  After taking Matt down his throat and in that gorgeous ass?  After Matt took him apart and made him scream and beg and cry?

       Matt gave an exaggerated groan, the smell of Dean’s own arousal wasn’t helping him get his under control.  “You’re not going out there alone, Dean.”  Behind the round tinted glasses, Dean could swear Matt’s eyes were drilling into his soul.  The lawyer wasn’t gazing vaguely into the middle distance, he was watching Dean’s every move.  Watching…?

       “You can see.” Dean accused him.  “I’ve been noticing it all night and thinking I was crazy.”

       “I can’t see the same way you do,” Matt admitted.  “Sounds.  Smells.  The way the air feels.  My other senses give my brain enough information to make a picture.”  He didn’t tell the hunter that he could hear not just Dean’s heart beat, but the pulse of every other person in the building; or that Mrs. Micaletti from three blocks over had baked her home made lasagna last night and her husband was currently heating up the leftovers in the microwave while ranting about the Yankees; or that behind the closed door of Matt’s bedroom a moth with a tattered wing was vainly trying to escape through the glass of the window.  Right now, Claire and Foggy were the only ones to know just how _enhanced_ Matt’s other senses were.

       “So like the Force?”  Dean could totally get on board with that idea.  It wasn't like he hadn't seen stranger things in his life.

       Matt had to laugh at Dean's description and at his unquestioning acceptance.  “I never thought about it that way.”  He wiped his cheeks where laughter had squeezed the tears from his eyes, wanting to kiss Dean some more.  He’d thought Foggy was the only one who could make him laugh like that over his blindness.  “So Princess Leia, you want to rethink your escape plan while I change clothes?”

       Dean snorted, “I’m totally Han Solo, dude.”

       “I called dibs,” Matt argued as he moved towards his bedroom, still monitoring Dean in case he tried to bail.

       “Did not.  Besides Han didn’t have the Force.  You can be Luke.”

       “I don’t wanna be Luke.”

       They kept up the banter as Matt pulled on one of the many combinations of black sweat pants and black t-shirts that used to make up his crime fighting uniform before he received the red suit of protective fabric from Melvin Potter.  Dean went to the fridge for a coke while he waited for the lawyer watching the lightning streak outside and wishing they could stay in the apartment and...he did not think cuddle.  His phone rang again as Matt emerged into the living area with his shoes in hand.

       “It’s Sam.”  Dean waved Matt closer so the lawyer could hear the conversation and Matt complied without explaining it wasn’t necessary, happy that Dean was including him, happy to be closer.  He leaned his head against the hunter’s, Dean’s phone between them.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     “        "Sammy?  Talk to me.  Where are you?  Are you all right?”

       “I’m fine, Dean.”  The undertone of sarcasm and cruelty belied that statement.  Sam was still affected by the demon’s blood.  “I was actually working the case.  I thought you would be too, but I’m back at Josie’s and I hear you left awhile ago tagging along behind that Murdock attorney like a lovesick puppy.  God you’re pathetic, Dean.”

       “Glad you’re safe, Sammy.”  Dean could take the venom now that his greatest fear was allayed.

       “Of course, I am.  I don’t need you hoverin’ over me, Dean.”

       “Did you find Meg?”  Keeping Sam focused seemed to minimize the insults.

       “Yeah.  I staked out her apartment and followed her when she went into some old building that’s been condemned.  It was close to the river.”

       “I think I know the area he’s talking about,” Matt said softly to Dean so Sam couldn’t hear.

       “On the third floor she had an altar.  I couldn’t see much, but I think she’s the one summoning the daeva.”

       “She is,” Dean confirmed.  “Turk was showing that daeva sigil around and found someone who had seen it before on a girl’s locket.  The girl they described matches Meg’s appearance.”

       “There’s more.  She had this…chalice, I guess.  She was using it to communicate with someone.  Almost like scrying.”

       “The daeva?”

       Dean could almost see Sam shaking his head, hair flopping back and forth.  “Nah.  The daeva are too animalistic.  They’re her attack dogs.  This sounded like her boss.  She called him her father.  Dean she was telling him about us.  That she knew where to find you and me, and that she was waiting for Dad to show himself.”  Sam gave a derisive snort to express his thoughts on that subject.  “She said he’s in the city somewhere.”

       “Dad called me back, Sam.”

       “What did he say?”

       “Mostly tore me a new one for letting you get the slip on me.”

       Sam chuckled with a kind of dark delight, oblivious to Dean’s distress.  “Remember when I was eleven?  I got away from you while you were out turning tricks at the truck stop and hid out for two weeks before you and Dad tracked me down.  Best two weeks of my life.  Totally worth the whipping.  Best part was watching you squeal when Dad lit up your ass too.  Wouldn’t that be rich?  Dad shows up after all this time just to beat your ass and the demons are waiting for him.  Won’t show up when you’re dyin’ in a hospital bed.  That doesn’t even merit a phone call.  But losin’ little Sammy again…”

       Matt plucked the phone out of Dean’s hand.  “Sam, it’s Matt.  Get back on track.  Is there anything else we need to know about Meg or the daeva?” 

       The silence stretched out so long that if Matt hadn’t been able to hear Sam’s breath and his heartbeat, he might have assumed the younger Winchester had ended the call.  “Shit,” Sam sounded nearly as broken as Dean.  “Um.  Yeah.  If this is a trap for me, Dean and Dad, it’s probably best that we stay apart.”

       “Agreed,” Matt said emphatically.  “Brett put a stakeout on your motel room so where are you gonna stay?”

       “Josie offered me a room upstairs.”

       “Sam…whatever’s goin’ on with you…  Is Dean the only one?”

       “The only one I want to hurt?  Yeah.”

       Thank God, the kid was telling the truth.

       Sam gave a small cough to hide some emotion.  “Probably because he’s the only person I care about.”

       Matt reminded himself that Sam wasn't a bad person.  “Get some sleep.  If Foggy and Karen are still at the bar, tell them I said to go home, preferably together.  They’ll get a kick out of that, but let’s hope there’s safety in numbers.”

       “Tell Dean I’m sorry.”

       “You want to make it up to him, then you call your Dad and tell him you’re safe.”

       “Sure.  No problem.  Tell Dean…”

       “Goodnight, Sam.”  Matt hung up the phone without waiting for a reply and searched the room for Dean, finding a huddled ball of human heat signature, misery, and shallow breathing near the windows.

       As Matt approached, he lowered himself to the floor, sitting close but not touching the other man though he wanted to badly.  Neither said a word, but each felt the eyes of the other probing.  It was Dean who broke the silence.  “You still want to fuck?”

       This was one of those times when Matt truly felt like a blind man.  Dean’s voice was devoid of any emotion.  There was no arousal in his scent.  He’d scarcely moved since Matt had sat down near him.  “Do you?” He had to ask because Dean was giving him no clues.

       His answer was a sudden lapful of hunter.  Rough lips placed kisses along his jaw for a moment before he was pushed back and calloused hands were pulling at the ties of his sweat pants and dragging them down over his hips along with his boxers.  Too shocked momentarily to do much more than let Dean take control, Matt’s half hard cock was swallowed to the root and expertly coaxed to readiness.  After regaining coherent thought, Matt nearly lost it again as Dean took his now fully erect dick deep into the back of his throat, his gag reflex causing the muscles of his throat to flutter as he fought against instinct.  Matt could scent Dean’s tears.  “Dean.”  The word was a warning, but not in the way the younger man took it.

       Letting the lawyer’s cock fall from his mouth, Dean made short work of pulling off his own shoes, jeans and briefs before positioning himself on his hands and knees in front of Matt.  Reaching behind him, he took the blind man’s hand and placed it on his hip.  “Do it,” he instructed.

       “Dean!”  Matt’s voice was sharper this time, calling whatever they were doing to a halt.  “Slow down.  You’re not ready.”

       “It doesn’t matter.”  The catch in the younger man’s voice was desperation, not passion.  Matt’s erection flagged.  “I thought you wanted me!”

       “I’m not gonna hurt you, Dean.”

       “I want you to hurt me, damnit!  Don’t you understand?  I’m telling you it’s okay!”

       “And I’m telling you it’s not.  Not like this.”  Matt tucked himself back in place and pulled the sweatpants up.

       Dean rotated himself to a sitting position, but made no move to dress or even cover himself.  “Give me a minute and I’ll get out.”  Dean was walking the fine line between feeling too much and nothing at all.  Matt knew that razor’s edge.  He’d been there himself more than a few times but there had been Father Lantom or Foggy, Karen, Claire, the mission:  somebody holding tight and refusing to let him tumble over the side or some reason worth living through another day.  What did Dean have?  A father who abandoned and bullied him?  A brother who on a good day didn’t say the hateful things he felt?  A mission that asked him to live as a fugitive and risk his life for people who didn’t know him and would probably cross the street if they saw the threadbare tough-acting young man walking their way?  At least on Matt’s really dark days he could always pick a fight or tackle the heavy bag at the boxing gym until his knuckles bled and he hurt so bad… 

     He hurt.  He knew what it was like to want to hurt, to turn raw emotions he didn’t know how to express into physical pain.  Pain that was familiar.  Pain he knew how to deal with.  It clicked.  Sort of…  Matt could understand the desire to hurt, but Dean’s way of going about that goal only made him more vulnerable, more a subject of ridicule in his own mind and certainly in his brother’s.  Dean released a ragged breath and began to stir.  There was no way in hell Matt was letting him walk out that door.  However Matt chose to muddle through the situation in front of him had to be better than letting Dean leave and offer himself to a stranger to be abused.  “Dean…”

       “I’m going,” he responded quickly, his movements picking up speed.

       “No you’re not.”  Matt stood, towering over the man who in reality stood an inch taller than him.  “You’re going to stay and I’ll try to give you what you need.  But we’ll do it my way.” 

       Dean was still moving and not in the direction Matt wanted.  “You don’t have to.”  He pulled on his underwear and stuffed one leg into his jeans.

       “Dean…”

       “Sam wasn’t lyin’.” Dean kept talking as he finished fastening his pants.  “I’m a whore, Matt, and not the fancy kind.  I’ve been sellin’ myself since I was fourteen.  Least I was until I got too big to pass as a kid and scumbags didn’t want me anymore.  All the skeezy motels Dad parked us at…  Got tired of dudes takin’ it from me so I stopped fighting and started charging.  Least that way I could keep Sammy fed.”  He scooped the rest of his discarded clothes into his arms.

       “That doesn’t mean you deserve to be hurt.”  Matt took hold of Dean’s arms when he stood, refusing to let him walk away.

       “Why not?  Weren’t you listening?  No one wanted me to go with you tonight.  For a while there, I forgot what I was.  Nobody else did.  You don’t take guys like me home.”

       “I make my own decisions.”  Matt tightened his grip.  Dean would have bruises in the morning.  “You still haven’t given me a reason to hurt you.”

       “Meredith.  The banker guy.  The school teacher.  Jess.”

       “You didn’t kill them, Dean.”

       “It doesn’t feel that way,” he said quietly.  “They didn’t deserve to die so some demon could send a message.  People die when I don’t do my job right, don’t do it fast enough.  Now people are dying because I did a good enough job that some bastard is looking for revenge.  Sometimes I dream I’m drowning in blood.”

       Penance.  Matt, a life-long Catholic could understand the concept of atonement.  He didn’t think Dean was responsible for those deaths, but that didn’t matter, Dean did.  In his own mind he deserved the pain and he couldn’t let go of the guilt.

       “Okay,” Matt took a breath.  “Are you willing to do this my way?”

       “You don’t have to deal with my shit.”

       “I don’t.  That’s why you have a choice.  Me or a pair of handcuffs.  You’re not leaving like this.  I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

       “I thought we’ve already been down this road.”

       “This time I’m not gonna change my mind.”

       “You can’t stop me.”

       “I already did once.”

       “Luck.”

       “Then make your move.”  Matt took off his glasses.  The promise of a fight perked Dean up as Matt had hoped it would. 

       Dean set down the bundle containing his belongings, emptied his pockets, and turned to face the blind man.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

       Matt solved that problem by striking first, an intentionally obvious swing that Dean easily and instinctively blocked, as Matt had expected him to, followed by a quick jab to the gut that caught Dean completely by surprise.  Rather than push his advantage, Matt took a step back, letting Dean rub his belly ruefully.  “Stop making excuses, Dean,” Matt intentionally echoed the words of his Dean's father.           

       Dean lunged forward with a shout, attempting to take Matt around the waist.  The lawyer would have grinned if he wasn’t so worried.  He rarely got the chance to spar.  No one wanted to go into the ring with Matt Murdock, a blind man.  On the blue moon occasion when another fighter agreed to a friendly match, they treated Matt with kid gloves, like they thought he would break.  As Daredevil, The Man Without Fear…well there was nothing friendly about the fights Matt found when he wore the mask of Hell’s Kitchen’s hero. 

       Though Matt had thrown the first punch (and the second) the battle quickly became more of a wrestling match, neither wanting to seriously injure the other.  Dean was slightly taller and broader than the lawyer, and had trained under his father for years.  Matt was equally strong though his build was slimmer than Dean’s.  He too had trained for years, but he was faster than Dean and his martial arts and acrobatics skills caught the hunter unawares.  Not many monsters needed kung fu when they had the whole fangs, claws and unnatural strength thing going for them.  It became a battle of wills:  Matt clearly the victor, but Dean stubbornly refusing to quit even though he had burned off that dark energy that led to the fight.  There was another kind of energy building between them as they continued to grapple and lock their bodies together.

       The solution to end the battle revealed itself through a happy accident as Dean finally squirmed his way out of Matt’s latest hold.  As he attempted to maintain his grip on the larger man, Matt’s fingers dug into the fleshy space under Dean’s ribs, and continued to wriggle up Dean’s rib cage as Dean yelped and flung himself away from the lawyer.  “That’s cheating, Murdock,” Dean panted as he tried to regain his breath.

       “I don’t believe we established ground rules; therefore I could hardly be found guilty of cheating.”  Dean swore that the smile that unfurled across the other man’s face was positively Grinch-like in its sadistic glee as he crooked his finger in Dean’s direction.  “Come here, Dean.”

       “Fuck you,” Dean tensed like a rabbit knowing a fox was about to pounce.

       “Oh, I think we both know that’s not how this is gonna work, baby,” Matt’s grin became even more evil.  The kind of evil that had Dean reaching to adjust the crotch of his jeans where a seam was beginning to press uncomfortably against his hardening dick.  “The question is how sore your ass is gonna be before we get around to the actual fucking.”

       “Shit,” his crotch became even more uncomfortable as Matt zeroed in on the shared kink they had discovered before they had even left Josie’s Bar.  Dean put the couch between himself and his predator.  “I didn’t think you wanted to hurt me.”

       “I said I’d give you what you need.”  Dean was positive Matt’s too pale eyes were tracking him.  The lawyer practically purred.  “Come over here before I count to three…”

       “Damn counting again,” Dean muttered mutinously and Matt wished he could see the pout he was sure was gracing the younger man’s face.  “I’m not a kid, you know.”

       Matt had never played this game before and he was fairly certain that Dean hadn’t either from what he had described, but the scent of their combined arousal was heavy in the air.  Matt was much more comfortable with winging it through playtime than he was with administering penance, but Dean’s mood could change rapidly and Matt was certain the topic would come up again (If the hunter’s phone rang again, he was going to toss it down the garbage disposal).  However, for now…Matt was going to enjoy this.  “Now, don’t be a sore loser, Dean.”

       “I didn’t lose,” Dean grumbled.  “You cheated.”

       Matt wiggled his fingers in the international sign for the approach of the merciless tickle monster.  “Do you want to come closer and say that?”

       “I knew you were an asshole.” 

       There was no anger in Dean’s insult, but Matt frowned like an affronted school-teacher.  “Hmmmm, maybe I should use the hairbrush instead of my hand.”  There was that deliciously wicked smile again that made Dean’s heart skip a beat and then start racing.  He could feel pre-come wetting the front of his underwear.  And somehow, Matt knew.  The bastard was licking his lips like a damn wolf and Dean was Red Riding Hood which only made Dean’s butt cheeks clench and another dribble of pre-come stain his boxer briefs.

       Matt swore he could hear the rush of blood staining Dean’s face and he desperately wanted to feel the heat of the hunter’s skin through his fingertips, wanted to map out the contours of forehead, eyes, nose, and mouth; wanted to delve his tongue into the hollow at the base of his throat…  He wanted everything about this man who challenged him and fought him like an equal but would also let a blind man lead him.  

       Matt Murdock had spent his life being taken care of by others.  Academically his condition had never been an issue, but personally, in day to day life, Matt had to accept so much help to maintain appearances, had to smile and offer thanks when well-meaning souls did for him without asking something he could easily have done for himself.  And even with his abilities, there were still things he couldn’t do...would never be able to do.  He wondered if that was another reason he clung so hard to his alter ego even after he nearly lost his soul and his best friend:  just to be able to do what he knew he could, be the man he knew he was.  He was his father’s son after all. 

       That was something else to explore with Father Lantom the next time Matt stopped by for a latte with the priest of St. Patrick’s.  But for now…there was Dean…  Who was standing right in front of him!  Shit!  That made twice now that the hunter had sneaked up on him.

       “Matt,” Dean whispered, so unsure of himself, but accepting what Matt offered.

       Matt rewarded his hunter with a tender caress of fingertips against the stubble on Dean’s cheeks.  Dean leaned into the touch, closed his eyes and let go of the control he clung to so tightly.  Matt let his fingers move over those lips…full and soft and slightly rough.  He couldn’t wait to have that mouth swallow him again, but this time, Matt would make him go slow so he could reach down and feel those lips stretched around his cock.  Moving from Dean’s mouth, Matt traced his jaw back to the curved shell of delicate ears and then across high cheekbones to the fine narrow line of his nose.  Cupping the younger man’s face between his palms, Matt brushed his thumbs over large eyes fringed with thick and long lashes and the delicate arch of each brow.  God, Foggy had told him about Dean’s good looks, but now Matt could fit together the pieces of the puzzle for himself and knew without a doubt that Dean was gorgeous by any standard.

       Dean gradually relaxed under Matt’s examination, even allowing the blind man to ruffle his eyelashes with a fingernail.  He kept his eyes closed even when the fingers moved and began to scratch lightly over his scalp and fingers closed to ensnare a handful of hair and tug gently to tilt his head to the side and expose his neck.  Feeling as if he was watching himself from outside his body, floating above the scene, Dean thought it remarkable that he would trust this man enough to close his eyes, and tried to tell himself that he needed to pull away, needed to be on guard, but his body refused to listen.  No one had touched Dean so tenderly, not even Cassie who was the closest Dean had come to attempting a normal relationship.  That hadn’t ended well.  Dean shuddered as a hand cradled the back of his head and there were lips and the gentle scrape of teeth on his exposed neck.

       Matt didn’t think Dean even realized the noises he was making, soft breaths with just a hint of a whimper that would have been too silent for anyone other than Matt to hear.  When the other man’s hands twitched as a precursor to movement, Matt shushed him softly, breath and vibrations and lips and teeth and tongue all moving over Dean’s neck.  “Keep still,” Matt instructed never moving his mouth away from Dean’s skin.  He pushed his tongue into that divot at the base of Dean’s throat that he had fantasized about earlier, feeling his pulse and the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallowed.  Another tug on his hair pulled Dean’s head in the opposite direction and Matt moved to explore again. 

       Dean wondered if it was possible for him to come just from this, from Matt’s mouth on his throat.  He fought the urge to move his hips forward, just an inch or two, enough to feel the rub of their concealed erections.  He clamped his lips tightly together as an unmanly sound threatened to escape.  “No, Dean,” Matt protested.  “I want to hear every noise you make.  I want to paint a picture of you in sound in my head.”  He sucked hard at a spot that had caused Dean to quiver earlier and now it drew forth a moan that went on and on as Matt didn’t release him, but sucked harder and used his teeth hard enough to know he had marked the man for anyone to see.

       “Matt!” Dean gasped, hands fluttering at his sides like butterflies caught in a jar as he fought to obey the order to be still.

       “Mine,” he said firmly, finally releasing his hold on the hunter’s neck.  “I don’t care who knows.  I’m not ashamed of wanting you.”

       Something salty trickled down the side of Dean’s face that he would insist was sweat.  Matt felt the drop slide onto his own lips, tasted it and traced the track it had made up to its source and back down Dean’s cheek.  From there, Matt nipped lightly along Dean’s jaw line until he found himself once again at that luscious mouth.  The first kiss was chaste, just the press of mouths together, then Matt swept his tongue across the seam of Dean’s perfect lips, “Let me in, baby,” he whispered and Dean obeyed, parting his mouth just enough for the tip of Matt’s tongue to enter.  The thought of rejecting the term of endearment never entered the touch-starved young man’s mind.

       Taking Dean’s chin between the thumb and fingers of his right hand, it took only the smallest effort to pull his mouth open wider.  Matt ran his tongue over the man’s even teeth, licking deeper into his mouth, then sought out Dean’s own tongue.   After a few loving caresses of tongue against tongue, Matt moved his left hand to the back of Dean’s head, that hand and the one on his chin, holding Dean still as the lawyer’s tongue became more demanding, plunging deep into the back of Dean’s mouth, mapping every nuance of the hot and wet source of those sweet sounds Dean continued to make.  Breaking the kiss to catch his breath, Matt rasped out his next order.  “Strip.”     

 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 

       “How many damn shirts are you wearing?” Matt growled as he helped Dean remove a third layer and felt yet another beneath it.

       “Last one,” Dean promised, lifting the t-shirt over his head.  Before he’d even untangled his arms, Matt’s hands were running over the amulet Dean wore, his collarbones and the not quite smooth expanse of his chest, following the thin curls to the narrow trail that disappeared into the waistband of his pants.  If he had been a typical pencil-pusher, Matt might have been self-conscious as his fingers traced the sharp definition of the younger man’s body, but having a side gig as a superhero required conditioning which meant Matt’s own body was hard and toned as Dean had already appreciated…and scarred.  Matt found a scar on Dean’s ribcage to match his own. 

       “I take it you _have_ been fighting a wendigo…whatever that is?”

       “Yeah.”  He moved Matt’s hand to his opposite arm where there were more raised scars, “And that was a werewolf.  You can tell the difference ‘cause wendigo only have three claws.”

       Matt continued his exploration.  “And this one?”  It was on the same arm, but lower.

       “Ghost threw me into a tombstone when I was fourteen.  Broke my arm.”

       “You were hunting ghosts when you were fourteen?”

       “Once Sammy could stay by himself or wait in the car, Dad would take me with him on some of the easier hunts.”

       “That was easy?”

       “I should have been paying better attention.”

       Matt bit his lip to keep quiet, but he stopped asking Dean about the scars he found though he committed each one to memory and touched his lips to every mark with a prayer.  He was careful not to tickle Dean while he conducted his inventory though the hunter shivered with dreadful anticipation as potentially sinister fingers skirted over his ribs.  Finally Matt ran the sensitive pads of his fingertips over Dean’s nipples, smiling broadly as they readily responded, firming into pinch-able nubs that Matt eagerly indulged. 

       Dean moaned and arched his back into Matt’s touch as the other man flicked a fingernail across one nerve-laden pleasure point.  Very pleased with his hunter’s reaction, he did it again.  “You like that, sweetheart?”

       Dean nodded enthusiastically, belatedly remembering that Matt couldn’t see him.  “Feels good,” he let out a sharp hiss as the man began to roll one nipple between his fingers.  “Matt…  Please…”

       The man hummed in satisfaction, still pinching and twisting a nipple with one hand as he lowered his head, licking over the other in broad flat strokes before sucking it into his mouth, biting down while his tongue flicked quickly over the nub.

       “Augh!” Dean let out what would only be his first shout of the night.  His hands flew to the other man’s head and wrenched it off the tiny bit of abused flesh.

       Matt’s laughter was gentle, but not the least bit apologetic.  He allowed Dean to pull him into a kiss, but his fingers returned to their previous torture while his mouth was occupied.  Dean panted and moaned and whined and whimpered as his body bowed in and out, unsure whether to arch into or away from the overwhelming sensations.  Matt loved making his hunter dance and sing, but there was more treasure to discover.  When Dean was sure he’d be too sensitive to even slip on a t-shirt, Matt pulled back.  “God, Dean,” his voice shook, nearly as wrecked as Dean’s.  “I could do that all night and just listen to you whine.”  His thumbs played gently over the tender flesh.  “But I’ve got promises to keep.”  He found Dean’s hand and led him to the couch where Matt propped himself up on the narrow arm. “Pants and underwear off, then I want you over my lap.”

       “Matt,” Dean huffed, though he was so aroused he couldn’t stop his hand from fondling the bulge tenting the front of his jeans.

       “It’s okay, baby.”  He placed his own hand over Little Dean’s growing girth and moved Dean’s hand to feel him through the thin sweat pants where he was just as hard and eager.  “We both want it.”  When Dean didn’t object, Matt began to release the belt around the younger man’s waist and popped open the button of his jeans.  Dean slipped the amulet over his head, tossing it into a far corner of the couch and rested his hands on the lawyer’s shoulders as Matt unzipped his jeans.  The toothy clicks of the zipper were like Pavlov’s bell, causing Matt to salivate.  He was so hungry for this.  “Besides,” his voice took on a much lighter tone, “I think the rules of engagement expressly state that I get to negotiate the terms of your surrender since I clearly won the battle earlier.”

       “Shut up and spank me, Murdock.”

       Matt clamped down on the explosion of laughter bursting in his chest.  In a flash, Dean found himself in the same position he’d been in earlier in the evening, face down over the arm of the sofa, with an arm wrenched behind his back.  His unfastened pants were tugged down to his thighs and Matt’s right hand began to deliver a flurry of hard swats to the rounded swell of Dean’s butt cheeks. 

       Dean had been spanked plenty in his life.  Hell, his Dad had whipped him less than a year ago for disobeying his orders on a hunt they had together (Never matter that Dean’s instincts had been right, John Winchester’s word was law.).  And there were the countless paddlings he’d received from nearly every school he’d ever attended.  This certainly wasn’t like taking his Dad’s belt or a principal’s paddle, but it wasn’t supposed to be.  He’d known ever since he’d discovered porn that spanking could make him feel a flutter in his stomach that usually only came from taking a hill too fast in the Impala, but he’d never imagined he’d really ever find himself naked and ass-up at the age of twenty-five getting his bottom blistered by another man…and how that flutter of nervousness would become…MORE.  The cumulative effect of the repeated smacks created a burn that had Dean covered in a sheen of sweat as he twisted and turned.  Finally, he was pulled back to his feet.  While the hunter stood on rubbery legs, the lawyer positioned himself back on the arm of the couch.  “You earned that one, baby.”

       “Not sorry.”

       “Good.  ‘Cause we’re not done yet.”  He brushed fingertips over the head of Dean’s cock finding it already wet and slick as precome continued to leak from the slit.  “So perfect, Dean.”  His voice was as rough as sandpaper.  He stroked his hand up and down the thick shaft, fingers probing the swollen vein on the underside, smiling as more precome dribbled out and he felt Dean’s blush like a furnace. Reaching lower he cupped the hunter’s balls, rolling them in his hand as Dean grabbed on to his shoulders once again.  Slicking a finger with precome he slipped it between Dean’s spanked cheeks to brush over the tight furl of his hole.  Matt almost choked when Dean made a breathy little noise and the little knot of muscle clenched even more.  So tight.  He teased at the opening a moment more before scooping more slick onto his finger, wrapping his other arm around Dean’s waist and pulling him close as he raised the offering to the hunter’s lips.  Obediently Dean accepted the push of Matt’s finger into his mouth, tasting himself on the lawyer’s skin as he swirled his tongue around the invading digit.  Matt didn’t think he could hear anything over the pounding of his own heart.  He freed his finger from the suction of Dean’s mouth only to slick it up again and this time inserted two, fucking them in and out, Dean’s lips growing messy with his own spit and come.

       The hand on the arm around the hunter’s waist dropped lower to rub Dean’s bottom which was delightfully warm, but… He rubbed both palms over the spanked globes of Dean’s ass, kissing Dean hard and sloppy as he cleaned his hunter’s lips.  “Good,” he squeezed both butt cheeks, “but I’m willing to try for better.”  He released Dean completely.  “Pants all the way off.”

       Dean grumbled as he obeyed, but the scent of his arousal was stronger than ever.    

       Matt positioned Dean carefully so that the younger man was only balanced on his toes, his painfully hard dick getting no friction as it fell into the space between the lawyer’s spread thighs.  Dean was certain that only his palms splayed on the floor kept him from tumbling face-first over the lap where he was precariously positioned, but even that didn’t satisfy the owner of said lap.  “If you need support, hold onto my leg.”  Dean clung to the offered calf for dear life, surprised when he didn’t fall on his head.  “I’m not gonna let you fall.”  Matt’s chuckle made Dean want to pinch that calf, but he knew he’d be sorry if he gave in to that impulse so he settled for mockery.

       “You’re just tough talk, Murdock.  All you’ve done so far is play paddy cake.”

       Matt squeezed one already tenderized cheek.  “Sounds like I have a little hunter who wants to meet my hairbrush?”

       Dean’s body practically convulsed with a frisson of pleasure as he let himself acknowledge that he wanted this.  “Maybe,” the hunter's voice was soft and painfully shy. 

       “Jesus,” Matt breathed out at Dean’s unexpected reaction.  “You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me, Dean.  I can’t keep my hands off you.”  As if to prove his point, he spent minutes stroking the hot globes of Dean’s spanked ass, the knobs of his spine, and the thick muscles of his thighs (where Matt found more claw shaped scars) until Dean was more than ready to get on with it and said so.  Matt complied.

       “Matt…” Dean grunted long after he’d lost count of the number of slaps that had rained down on his backside.  He was squirming on Matt’s own hard thighs, desperately humping the empty air where his neglected cock was in agony. 

       “You’re so close, aren’t you, baby?”

       Dean keened in agreement, rubbing his reddened face against Matt’s calf, twisting his hands in the fabric of the black sweatpants as he kept writhing.  Dean gave a startled yip as Matt tipped him over further, giving himself access to begin spanking the hunter’s thighs and sit-spots and giving Dean’s cock some blessed friction.  The hunter cried out less than a dozen spanks later, bucking as he came so hard he was afraid he broke his dick.  Matt continued to spank him through his orgasm, stopping only when Dean was mewling and gasping from oversensitivity.  “You okay?”

       He received only a high pitched hum in answer, the hunter’s hips still grinding against his thigh.  Matt ran his hands up and down Dean’s sweat-slicked back, and he was enthralled by the heat blooming in the younger man’s ass.  Now Matt was the one so hard he hurt.  He gently eased Dean off his lap and moved off the painfully narrow arm of the couch (where his own ass was growing numb) to the lower section, guiding the still dazed hunter to kneel on the floor.  Matt caressed the lovely face with affection.  “Clean it off, puppy.”  He easily pushed Dean’s nose into the wet spot on his inner thigh where the hunter had spent his release.  Moving with trance-like grace, the younger man licked the fabric of Matt’s sweats then sucked the black cotton into his mouth, determined to reclaim every bit of come he had lost.

       Matt guided Dean’s head to the large swell of his cock.  “Dean…?”  He left it a request, moving his hand from the back to the top of the other’s head so that Dean wouldn’t feel forced.  The hunter rocked forward on his knees, pressing his face into Matt’s crotch and rubbing his cheek against the bulge like a kitten searching for attention.  He mouthed the erection through the layers of clothing as his hands massaged their way up Matt’s calves and thighs, opening his legs wider.  At Dean’s prompt, Matt lifted his butt to let the younger man remove his pants.  Dean didn’t need Matt to tell him that this needed to be different from the hasty blow job earlier.  It was different for Dean as well.  He’d never been able to take his time.  He’d never wanted to. 

       Even though Dean was the one on his knees, the expression on Matt Murdock’s face was full of worship when he slipped a finger into Dean’s already full mouth to rest on the hunter’s tongue alongside his cock.  Dean never took his eyes away, watching every emotion and sensation flit across the dark-haired man’s features, marveling at the tears that fell from the milky blue eyes after his near silent climax, Dean’s name falling like a mantra, like a psalm of praise from his lips.  The salt of Dean’s own tears mixed with the taste of come in his mouth.  He cleaned the lawyer’s cock thoroughly then tried to stifle a yawn as he rested his head on Matt’s knee and let his eyes close, sighing contentedly…no, happily, as strong fingers carded through his hair.

       Combined together, Matt’s enhanced senses created a vision in his brain composed of sound and sensations, scent and taste, motion and warmth.  The effect, Matt believed, must be something like an impressionist painting.  Dean Winchester was a masterpiece, a perfect work of haunting imperfection.  Layer upon layer under the surface. Unforgettable.  Life-changing.  Mine.     

       Shit.  Foggy was right.  This was going to hurt.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of Dean and Matt fluff before the phone starts ringing again.

Chapter 10

 

       Dean blinked awake as a finger of sunlight poked him in the eye.  There was a flare of panic as he found himself in unfamiliar surroundings having to struggle to break free to move.  “Dean,” Matt croaked as his arms instinctively tightened around the man whose back was flush to his chest.  Both had wanted to be the big spoon and had settled eventually with Matt on his back and Dean on his side with his head on Matt’s shoulder.  In sleep they had shifted and Matt took silent satisfaction in the fact that he had won the game of spoons…  Of course he might come to regret that, he thought, as Dean’s sharp elbow found a vulnerable spot.  He relaxed his arms and let the flailing man bolt upright. 

       Gradually Dean’s rapid breaths evened out as he remembered where he was and who he was with.  Once calm, he collapsed onto the mattress and the softest sheets he had ever felt…seriously, they had to be magical…knitted together from summer breezes, motherly kisses, butterfly farts and whatnot.

       As if Matt didn’t already have stupid pink hearts circling his head wherever the hunter was concerned, the image his mind produced of a naked, sleep-softened Dean Winchester with two sets of rosy cheeks, plump lips slightly parted, rutting lazily against Matt’s silk sheets was so goddamn adorable the battle-hardened vigilante thought he might melt into a puddle of maple syrup.  He raised himself onto an elbow and with his free hand, fondled Dean’s still tingling ass as the muscles beneath the skin bunched and flattened in a slow rhythm.  “Sorry, I woke you,” Dean apologized, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his own voice sounding like he had gargled sand and forgot to rinse.  “Not used to sleeping with someone.  Don’t know that I ever woke up with a guy before, ‘cept Sammy.”  He rolled onto his side and faced the other man.

       “And not naked, I hope,” Matt stroked a hand down Dean’s chest.

       Dean barked out a laugh, “Definitely not.  Kid’s feet sti –stinkah!”  Dean stuttered and gasped as the lawyer tweaked one of his bruised nipples.  “Sadistic bastard,” he growled.

       “You love it.”

       After planting a kiss in the general direction of Dean’s forehead and settling for an eyebrow instead, Matt reached over to hit his bedside clock which announced the time in a feminine robotic voice as _7:02 a.m._   As soon as the lawyer moved, Dean made a hasty exit from the bed.  A staring contest ensued which Dean thought was odd…considering Matt was, well, you know, _blind_.  Maybe it was the whole Force thing, but that didn’t explain the loaded stare.  Dean’s heart was racing so fast he almost considered sitting back down on the bed…closer to the man with sleep mussed hair and a dark shadow of day old stubble gracing his cheeks, matching the thick nest of wiry auburn hair that furred his chest and abs, leading to…shit.  He shifted from foot to foot, blushing under what he felt was intense scrutiny though he didn’t know how that was possible.  Still, he’d had his ass handed to him by the blind man when they’d fought…and again when they’d…  Son of a bitch!  Dean looked down at his mutinous dick that was perking up and taking notice of the direction of his thoughts.

       Matt knew he’d taken few precautions to keep the true extent of his abilities secret from Dean, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to care the night before…now however…he could see the younger man moving uncertainly as his brain filled with…what?  Questions?  Regret?  Want?  He hoped it was the latter because they’d tumbled into bed shortly after the blow job that had felt more like a spiritual experience and there were so many more ways he wanted to claim and debauch Dean Winchester.

        “You’re fidgeting,” Matt commented casually, causing Dean to freeze with a guilty expression that he was glad the other couldn’t see.  Wait, he couldn’t see that, could he?  “My guess is you’re either looking for the bathroom or looking for a quick escape because you’re freaking out over what we did.”

       Dean did what he did best and evaded the question.  “Um…It’s Friday.  Don’t you have to get to work?”

       Matt was having none of that.  “Answer the question.”

       “Objection.  It was a compound question, your honor.”  Dean smirked at Matt’s raised eyebrows.  “Once Sammy outgrew _The Thundercats_ he made me watch every episode of _Law and Order_ ever created.  More than once.  I think he took notes.”

       The lawyer smiled toothily, “Allow me to rephrase the question then.  Will you stay for breakfast?”

       “I…uh…I told Josie I’d demon-proof her bar this morning…so…um…I should really be going.”

       “You can do that?”  If Dean wanted to avoid discussing the night before, well, Matt could make that work to his advantage as well. 

       Dean explained the defensive properties of salt, iron, silver and holy water and his theory that mixing salt and iron shavings into paint would allow for a more permanent and stable protection.  As he spoke, Matt rose from the mattress and, with a gesture of invitation, secured Dean’s assistance in making the bed while he talked.  He didn’t know if he was disappointed or grateful to discover that the fire he had kindled on the surface of his hunter’s backside had been quenched during the night until just a hint of heat was all that remained.  As Dean finished his explanation, the two were face to face, neither certain what to do next for a few painful seconds.  “Let me show you the shower.”  Matt took Dean’s hand and led him to the bathroom where there was a large walk-in shower with two shower heads.  Dean had to wonder if maybe the orgasm last night had killed him and this was heaven. 

       Matt left to start coffee, but couldn’t stay away from his hunter.  The sound of off-key humming interspersed with the rare word or phrase to the tune of _Eye of the Tiger_ was a siren’s call.  The image of a carefree Dean Winchester shaking his butt as he danced under the falling water and sang into a shampoo bottle microphone would be etched in Matt’s brain as his new favorite thing.  He planned to have Foggy download the song onto his iPod as soon as he got to the office.  He surprised the other man by stepping inside the shower to join him, the song dying on Dean’s lips with a mouse-like squeak.  “Do you take requests?  I’ve always thought a little AC/DC in the morning gets the blood flowing.”

       “The shower made me do it.”  Dean was enjoying himself far too much to be embarrassed.  He moved aside to allow Matt access.  “The gods of hot water and awesome pressure had to be praised.”

        Matt grinned boyishly, dark hair plastered to his forehead, as he raised his right hand:  “I, Matt Murdock, solemnly declare that I shall in no way infringe upon your free exercise of the religion of your choice.  By all means, continue.”

       Dean chuffed out an imitation of an irritated grumble, but there was a grin on his face to match Matt’s.  “Nope, the gods must be worshipped alone.”

       “In that case…” He grabbed the bottle out of Dean’s hand.  A tentative sniff identified it as conditioner, so he set it back on the shelf and found the shampoo which he passed to Dean before presenting his back to the hunter and waiting expectantly.  Dean got with the program.  While he himself had always used a single bar of soap from head to toe, Sam had become some sort of prima donna at Stanford and took no less than four bottles of fruity smelling potions into the shower with him.  Matt had three bottles in his shower which was less than Sam but still more than one person should ever have any use for...in Dean’s humble opinion.       

       As he lathered up the shorter man’s hair, Dean wrinkled his nose.  “This smells like an old lady’s purse.”

       “It’s rosemary and mint.”  Matt tilted his head back into Dean’s hands.

       “Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum,” Dean argued.  Missouri always kept a pack in her purse and she always knew when he had swiped a piece.  Dean rinsed the other man’s hair carefully, tipping his head back to keep the soap out of his eyes.  It had been years since he’d given Sam a bath, but the motions were familiar.  When Matt handed him the matching conditioner, he made an exasperated sound. 

       “You’re rolling your eyes now, aren’t you?”

       “Wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” Dean sassed.

       “Awful mouthy for a guy who still has a date with a hairbrush, baby.” 

       Dean had hoped he would still be able to feel last night’s spanking, but the pain and the heat had mostly disappeared.  There wasn’t even a bruise (Dean had checked in the mirror before getting into the shower).  He wouldn’t mind another trip over the lawyer’s knees, especially if it ended in another earth-shattering orgasm.  And if there were marks he could see and feel to remind himself that Matt Murdock was real and not some fantasy that Dean conjured from too much coffee and a hit to the head… Well… Dean liked the idea of squirming behind the wheel of Baby, his ass still stinging and bearing the imprint of Matt’s hand. 

       The younger man was quiet and still for so long after that comment Matt began to worry.  “Last night was amazing, Dean, but we don’t have to do it again,” he couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice.  “I mean, I want to…  It was…  But if you don’t…”

       “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

       “Asshole.”  Matt’s grimace was composed of more than half relief, a healthy dose of annoyance, and a flicker of hope.

        Dean was proud of himself for having successfully dodged another bullet otherwise known as a chick-flick moment, though he couldn't help but worry that he might have shot himself in the foot in the process.  They finished the mutual shower, but each took over their own preparations.  Dean had to swallow his pride and use the fancy shampoo and body wash.  “Now I can smell like a girl too.”  That earned him a surprisingly well placed pop from Murdock’s washcloth.  Dean responded by yanking off the Ninja Turtle bandaid on the lawyer’s chest, more than a few chest hairs clinging to the adhesive.  A short tussle later found Dean pressed against the shower wall as he continued to fight Matt for control of the kiss.  With a growl, Matt gave the hunter a sharp bite on his lip, his hand sliding into Dean’s air and grabbing hold.  Matt’s mouth moved over his wet neck until he found the bruise he’d made the night before, then he promptly set about reinforcing his claim, reminding his stubborn hunter who he belonged to.  That led to an intense make out session and shared hand jobs as they put the gods of the hot water tank to the test.    

       Matt left Dean in the bathroom with a toothbrush, a borrowed pair of clean underwear, and the use of his electric razor while he returned to his bedroom to dress.  He could tell by the sounds when Dean finished in the bathroom and began to rummage through the apartment searching for his clothes.  If he was honest with himself, he half expected to hear the sound of the apartment door opening and Dean running away, not the sound of the younger man exploring his kitchen, but his nose confirmed the information:  Dean was cooking breakfast.

       Matt carried his shoes and suit jacket into the living area, dropping them onto the couch before proceeding into the section of the apartment that served as the kitchen.  He wrapped his arms around Dean from behind and nuzzled his neck.  “I hope you made enough to share?”

       “Barely,” Dean scoffed.  He tilted his head, giving Matt more room to play.  “You don’t cook much do you?”

       “No,” Matt agreed.  “Just the basics.  I was just learning to cook for Dad and myself, but after the accident he rarely let me near the stove.  Growing up in group homes meant there was usually staff to do the cooking.  Foggy taught me how to cook ramen in the microwave.  He’s not much of a cook either.  I guess if I wanted to I could learn.  I've just never wanted to.”  He sat down at the island, his hands immediately making contact with the contents of Dean’s pockets which had been laid out in orderly rows.  “Sorry.”

       “My fault.  I was taking inventory.  Making sure I didn’t lose anything when we…uh…you know…”

       “I do,” Matt smirked.  He picked up the heavy amulet Dean had worn around his neck at Josie’s.  His fingers traced the features of a dour face and tested the points of the wicked horns surrounding the head.  “Is there a story behind this guy?”

       Dean glanced over his shoulder to see.  “It was a Christmas gift from Sammy.  He got it from an old hunter we lost contact with.  He didn’t pass along any information with it.  I don’t guess he would have; Sammy didn’t know about the supernatural back then.  It’s ugly as hell and the damn thing’s dangerous; I chipped a tooth once and no tellin’ how many times I’ve had one of those horns stick me in the chest.  But it came from Sammy…and he got it for Dad, but gave it to me.  Probably just a piece of junk, but…” his voice trailed off.  Matt carefully placed the odd little head back on the counter.                                                                                                                                                       

       “Anyway,” Dean began again too loudly.  “Holy water is running low.  I used up all your salt last night to seal your door and windows, so you’re gonna need more and I’ll need a lot if I’m gonna take care of Josie’s place.”  He turned back to the stove and began to plate the simple meal of cheesy eggs and toast.  “If you want…um… Icouldgetenoughtodoyourplacetoo.”

       Matt was positive that there was more heat radiating from the hunter than the stove.  He wasn’t about to ask Dean to repeat himself, fearful that the offer would be revoked.  “I’d appreciate it.”  He kept his voice neutral, not acting like such an offer was a big deal, though from the little he knew about Dean, he was certain it was.  “I can take you by St. Patrick’s for the holy water.  I’d like for you to meet Father Lantom.  And there’s a hardware shop on the way to Josie’s where you can pick up paint and salt.”

       “Sounds good.”  Dean cleared a space to deposit Matt’s breakfast.  Then fetched a plate for himself and two mugs of coffee.  “I figured you didn’t use cream since I couldn’t find any.  Do you want me to get out the milk or sugar?”

       “I take it black.”  He felt Dean’s eyes on him.  “What?”

       “Sammy can’t even place an order for coffee in under fifty words.  You got the froo-froo shower stuff, I thought you’d like that other shit too.”

       “So what?  Does that make one tally in the Matt-Murdock-is-not-a-pretentious-asshole-column?”

       “There may be more than one mark in that column.”

       Matt feigned heart attack inducing shock.

       “Nope.  It just got erased.”

       Laughing, he scooped up a forkful of eggs.  “Oh god Dean,” he groaned around the mouthful of cheesy goodness.

       “Now I’m erasing the rest.”

       “No.  Seriously.  This is good.”  He could feel the heat of another blush coming off the hunter.  Dean was crap at accepting a compliment.

       “Just eggs.  Nothin’ fancy,” he muttered, taking a bite off his own plate.  They were good, but…come on, anyone could grate cheese and crack eggs, and it didn’t take a genius to figure they’d be better if you mixed in a little milk and salt and cayenne pepper (if you had it).

       “Where did you learn to cook?”

       “Scrambled eggs isn’t cooking.”

       “Dean…”  Damn.  That tone of voice and the little crease the lawyer got right between his eyes when he scowled, sent shivers down Dean’s spine.  Worse, Dean didn’t know if the reprimand was for talking with his mouth full or avoiding the question.

       To be safe, he wiped his mouth with his hand, swallowed the mouthful he was chewing and gave the lawyer his answer:  “It just happened.  Had to if I wanted to feed Sam.  ‘Course not all the places we stayed had stoves or fridges, so lots of things I learned to make came in a box.”  A small laugh escaped at a memory.  “Mixing peanut butter into hamburger helper and trying to cook it in a microwave was a disaster, but Dad had been gone a couple weeks and that was all we had left.”

       Matt wanted to ask how old Dean was and how many times he and Sam were left behind without supervision, but by now he knew the answers were _Too young_ and _Too often_.  Besides, he didn’t want to spoil Dean’s talkative mood by criticizing his Dad.  “So what, besides cheesy eggs, do you consider a success?”

       That led to Dean describing (almost proudly, Matt was pleased to note) his hamburger prowess, which led to the two men comparing the meals at their favorite greasy spoons, followed by Matt’s discovery that Dean LOVES pie.  Not for Sam’s sake.  Not for his Dad.  Pie was for Dean’s own pleasure.  Dean was happily waxing poetic as he described a pecan pie he stumbled across while on a solo hunt in a small mid-western town where they had a charity pie auction.  “Passionate pecan pie,” he said excitedly.  “It was donated to the auction by these Passionate nuns.  I mean, these ladies live behind walls!  They don’t go into the real world.  They don’t have sex!  They don’t even talk!  All they do is pray and make pies!  Just think about all that pent up energy, all that desire, all that passion and the only outlet they have is God and pie!”

       Matt was fairly certain the _Passionist_ nuns had ways to occupy their time besides making pie.  He was also fairly certain he was going to have to go to confession for the thoughts that rolled through his head at the image Dean conjured of passionate pies stuffed full of the repressed sexual urges of these saintly women.  Matt’s mind took over from there enthusiastically imagining the hunter covered in warm gooey passionate pie filling, stretched out and waiting for Matt to taste…

       “And it worked!”  Dean had continued his story while Matt worried about blasphemy.  “Passionate pecan pie: one.  Vengeful spirit: 0.  It was awesome!” he crowed.  “Better than holy water ‘cause it was sticky so the ghost couldn’t disappear and reform to attack me again because part of it was stuck in the pie filling.  ‘Course I would rather have finished eatin’ the pie myself.”

       “I’ll buy you a pie tonight, Winchester.”  Did he sound too eager?  Damn!  Dean was finally comfortable and Matt was going to scare him off. 

       “Are you askin’ me on a date, Murdock?”  Did he sound too eager?  Was the lawyer being serious? 

       “And if I were, what would you say?”

       “Dude, you had me at pie,” Dean grinned.  Both men pushing thoughts of demons, daevas and dead girls out of their heads and pretending such a thing were possible.

       Matt gathered the plates and made his way to the sink where he rolled up his sleeves.  “I can do that,” Dean objected to being relieved of his kitchen duties.

       “You cooked the food.  The least I can do is load the dishwasher.  Make yourself comfortable, we’ve got at least a half hour before we can leave.  Father Lantom is in Mass, Josie’s in bed, and the hardware store isn’t open until ten.”

       “But your work…” the sight of the lawyer with his shirt sleeves rolled up exposing his muscular forearms, made Dean’s mouth too dry to continue.

       “The benefit of being my own boss.” 

       Dean stood there for a second as if he wanted to argue, but then began opening and closing kitchen drawers, eventually finding Matt Murdock’s junk drawer and delightedly pawing through rubber bands, paper clips, twist ties for packages of bread, lip balm, business cards the blind man couldn’t see, odd keys, breath mints…

       Matt just gave a curious shake of his head and smiled as he scoured egg off the bottom of a skillet.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

 

       As they walked to St. Patrick’s on sidewalks swept clean by the previous night’s storm, Matt and Dean would occasionally dispense with the handholding of the night before, presumably so Matt could guide Dean by a hand to the small of his back…however that hand kept sliding down to where the blind man could try to feel the waning heat of Dean’s reddened bottom through his jeans.

       “We’re goin’ to church,” Dean reminded him.  Truthfully, he didn’t mind the attention.  He knew the voices in the back of his mind were waiting for the chance to mock him and rip him apart.  He was a grown man who let himself be spanked like a bratty kid and got off on it.  He was an experienced hunter who had killed hundreds of monsters but couldn’t fight off a blind lawyer.  But having Matt beside him, touching him, taking charge so easily, and making no secret of the fact that he had enjoyed the spanking as much as Dean, had kinda shocked the negative voices into silence.  For the moment at least.  It was so rare that Dean was alone in his own head that the solitude was almost unnerving, but then Matt would squeeze his hand, run his fingertips down Dean’s back, sneak a kiss or a feel of his ass like a horny teenager, and the panic would recede.  Dean was becoming addicted to those magic touches.    

       “We’re not in church yet,” Matt teased, sneaking another feel.  He did manage to curb his enthusiasm as he directed Dean up the steps of the rectory to St. Patrick’s. 

       “Remind me why we’re here again?” Dean whispered as Matt rang the doorbell.

       “You wanted holy water.”

       “Usually I just go into the church and take it,” he grumbled.

       “Does that little flask in your pocket hold enough to take on a demon, a daeva, and a brother hopped up on demon blood?”

       “I can find a bigger bottle.  Do you think if we ask nice, the priest would let me take a couple gallons?  Of course, it might not have an effect on the daeva.”

       “What?  We need Zoroastrian holy water?”

       “Maybe.  If there is such a thing.  Daeva are more demonized than demon, according to Pastor Jim.  But if it comes from hell, holy water should slow it down.  But we need to find out how to get rid of it.”

       Before Matt could respond, a housekeeper answered and referred the men to the church where the priest was hearing confessions.  The walk through the small prayer garden to the side entrance of the church was fragrant on that overcast spring morning, pink hyacinth overpowering even the smells of the city.  Brightly colored finches tittered at one another while feasting on pinecones slathered with peanut butter and sprinkled with bird seed.  The ground was soft from the rain, and path was rough and crooked, more of a suggestion to walk where others might have gone before.  Without being asked, Dean placed Matt’s hand on his elbow and slowed their pace, leading as naturally as he had accepted being led.  “Why don’t you talk like that when Sam is around?” Matt questioned.

       “Like what?” Dean shot Matt a curious glance, and the blind man could hear the honest confusion in the man’s question.

       “You let him do all the explaining.”

       “He’s smart.”

       “You are too, Dean.”

       That earned him a snort of skepticism.  “I dropped out of high school before I finished my sophomore year.”

       “Why?”

       “Just wasn’t my thing.”

       It was a split second decision, but Matt made his choice and stopped, clutching Dean’s arm to halt him as well.  “Can I tell you a secret?”

       Dean gave him a wary glance.  “Sure.”

       “I know when you’re lying.”

       “I’m not…”

       Matt cut off his protest short.  “Your heartbeat changes.”

       “I…  You can hear my heartbeat?”

       “It just started beating a little faster now.  You don’t need to be afraid.”

       “I’m not.”

       “Liar.”

       Matt let the silence stretch, waiting for Dean to fill it.  “That’s not something all blind people can do, is it?”

       “No.”

       “So the enhanced senses…  The way you fight…”

       “Part of it’s training, but the rest…  Honestly, I don’t know if the chemicals from the accident did something or if they just triggered something in me, but even Stick, the man who trained me, he’s not like me.”  He took a step closer to Dean.  “I know where you are.”  Knowing fingers took Dean’s chin and tipped it upwards.  “I know how you’re standing.”  Dean raised a hand to swat the lawyer away and Matt caught the moving hand immediately.  “I know if you’re going to move and usually how you’re going to move a split second before you actually do, because I can sense how you shift your weight.”  He held the captured hand between their bodies, and let the fingers of his other hand circle his mark on Dean’s neck.  “I let you call it The Force last night, but I’m not trusting my ability to foresee the unknown.  I know.”  He kissed Dean’s lips tenderly.  “I know the sound of your heartbeat.”  Another kiss.  “I know the smell of your arousal.”  Another…  “The taste of your fear.”  He rubbed noses with the hunter.  “I know that yesterday you ate a Chicago style dog from Marco over in Times Square because he uses his wife’s homemade pickles.”  He covered Dean’s lips to prevent interruption.  “I know there are two women in the daycare down the street arguing over whose turn it is to change a dirty diaper.”  He kissed Dean again and this time when he spoke their lips remained together.  “I know every word your Dad said to you last night.”  Dean jerked away, but Matt grabbed his jacket to keep him close.  “And I know when you’re lying to me.” 

       Dean was thrumming with anger and he wasn’t sure why.  He sucked in a breath of air like he was loading a gun, taking aim at the attorney and preparing to fire a volley of righteous indignation.  Matt let his own words fly before Dean could pull the trigger:  “I told you more last night than I’ve ever told anyone other than Foggy and Claire.  Keeping secrets almost cost me my best friend, and I almost died because I was too stubborn to trust him.  I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

       The lawyer’s voice was louder than Dean had heard it before, but still short of a shout.  Getting smacked in the face with the intensity of Matt’s declaration was like standing over an open grave when the match ignited the gasoline and the flames roared to the surface.

       The rest of the world faded away.  He could hear Dean’s breath circulating in and out of his body, hear the beat of his heart as it returned to a steady and relaxed rhythm, smell the tiniest bit of blood as Dean worried at his lip with his teeth. Matt could barely pull air into his lungs.  Telling Foggy had nearly ruined their friendship, but if he wanted to be part of this battle, if he wanted to fight alongside the hunter, if he wanted to protect him even for a day, the truth needed to be known.  Dean opened his mouth to speak and Matt braced for the accusations and the argument that had come in the wake of Foggy’s comprehension.  “What do you want from me?”

       “You can have secrets, Dean.  Just don’t tell me lies.  If we’re going to fight together we need to trust each other.”

       “Fight together?”  Dean detached himself from Matt, shaking his head.  “I can’t do that.  I can’t be responsible…”

       “For a blind man?”  Matt demanded in a voice that made Dean want to cower, but he held his ground.

       “You know that’s not it!  You kicked my ass last night.  I’m not gonna pretend that didn’t happen.  But demons…  Damnit, Matt!  I wouldn’t ask anyone to…”

       “You’re not asking.  And I’m not offering.  This is my home.  These are my neighbors.  I’m the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, Dean, and these things are gonna pay for what they’ve done.”

       After that dramatic announcement, the last thing Matt expected was for Dean to start laughing.  “You’re the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?”  The laughter erupted again.

       “I take it you’ve heard of me?” Matt deadpanned.

       Torrents of laughter.  “Dude, that’s a bitchface that’d make Sammy proud.”  Dean couldn’t catch his breath.  He scarcely noticed what Matt’s hands were up to until he felt his belt begin to slide from its loops.  “Hey!  What are you doing?”

       “Frankly, your belt looks like it would hurt more than mine and I have a disrespectful hunter who’s about to receive a lesson in manners right here.”

       Dean quickly sobered up, the laughter tapering off to chuckles as he wiped his eyes.  “I’m sorry.  It’s just we were thinkin’ about hunting you next, man.  Sammy thought you might be a rogue vampire.  He wanted to find the last vampire in America.”  Dean started chuckling again.  “I thought you’d be taller.”  And the laughter was back.

       With a tug, the belt came free.  Matt took Dean by the upper arm and began pulling him along, managing his footing on the uneven ground much better than the suddenly nervous hunter.

       “Matt,” Dean protested as he tried to dig in his feet.  “You can’t be serious.”

       “Dean.”  Oh, shit.  He was serious.  “If you want any semblance of privacy, I suggest you start moving.”  How could he make Dean feel like a bratty kid while at the same time sending a jolt of heat straight down his spine and into his dick?

       “Okay!  Okay!  I’m sorry I laughed.”  Not really.  Dean remembered the sight of a bitchface on Matt Murdock and started giggling again as he allowed himself to be pulled along. 

       Passing behind a brick and concrete grotto which sheltered a statue of Mary and a gurgling fountain, Matt stopped.  “You can leave your pants up considering where we are.  Now bend over and brace yourself, baby.  We’ll do an attitude check after ten and see if you still think laughter is the appropriate reaction to the confidence I placed in you.”

       Damn.  Now Dean felt guilty.  “Matt…”

       There was an arm around Dean’s waist and a much gentler whisper in his ear.  “I know you’re sorry, baby.  Let’s get this over with and move on.  You can make it up to me tonight.”  Dean responded to the slight pressure and bent forward, finding himself at almost a ninety degree angle.  Matt slowly raised the tail of the leather jacket and Dean’s flannels to expose his target.  The younger man started to break position when he heard voices passing on the sidewalk.  The garden truly was tiny.  Anyone could hear…  Hell, it wouldn’t take much for anyone to see them.

       “Matt,” he whined as the lawyer placed a hand on his back to keep him in place.

       “I know for a fact you’re not the first naughty little boy hauled back here for an attitude adjustment, baby.  When I was a kid some Sunday mornings there’d be a line of fathers and sons waiting on this spot.”  He slid his hand under the hem of Dean’s t-shirt to rub circles onto the warm skin of Dean’s lower back.  “I’ve been right where you are.”  He leaned down once again to place a rough whisper into his hunter’s ear, “And yes, everyone walking by is gonna hear.”  Dean’s whimper…  Matt had to hold back his own groan.  He challenged anyone to hear that sound and not have to readjust their pants.  He stepped back, folded the leather belt in half, raised his arm and brought the strap down hard across the very top of Dean’s ass.

       The crack of leather echoed like a shotgun blast through the garden enclosed on one side by the towering walls of the church and on the other by the lofty Victorian house that served as rectory and church office.  Dean hissed as the pain followed just a half-second behind the noise.  Matt barely gave him time to take a breath before the second blow fell right below the first.  Dean yelped.  The first five lashes fell precisely one below the other from the top of his ass to the top of his thighs.  The second five fell right on top of the first.  Dean had little doubt left regarding Matt’s capabilities.  The hunter was red-faced from the humiliation of the semi-public punishment, from the tears that were rolling down his face (Because, Damn!  That had hurt!), and from the erection uncomfortably contained behind his zipper. 

       Matt helped him stand straight and proceeded to wipe his tears and his runny nose with the handkerchief from his pocket.  “Do you have something you want to tell me now, Dean?”  Even after the strapping and Dean’s submission, his voice was still stern and angry and the sound made fresh tears – real tears - flow as Dean visibly shrank before him.  The game was over.  Matt felt like he’d just ruined Christmas.  He dropped the belt and gathered Dean to his chest, both of them apologizing to the other repeatedly as Dean clung to Matt like a lifeline and Matt pressed kiss after kiss to Dean’s hair, cheeks, and eyelids.  The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen truly felt that he had lived up to his name as he comforted the heart-broken little boy in his arms and the man that stepped out of that embrace minutes later had all of his walls, shields and armor firmly in place, locking Matt out.

       Wincing, Dean stooped over to pick up his belt and threaded it back into place.  “I’m assuming you don’t really need my help to get inside?”  Dean didn’t even wait for the answer as he turned and stalked towards the church.

       Entering the sanctuary, Matt dipped his fingers into the holy water font and made the sign of the cross.  The tap of his cane on marble tile reverberated through the cavernous space as he made his way to the pew where he knew Dean was kneeling.  Matt genuflected and crossed himself again, praying for a second chance as he entered the pew and knelt beside Dean.  Matt could hear the candle flames guttering in the breeze from an open door and the whispered voices in the confessional like the whisk of a straw broom across a bare floor.  He tried to avoid entering the church during confessions, preferring to wait for the priest on the bench in the prayer garden.  It was impossible to avoid hearing his fellow parishioners as they disclosed their sins to Father Lantom.  Regardless of whether Mrs. Rigsby’s most serious offense was to swipe the coupon section out of her neighbor’s Sunday paper; the knowledge that he was privy to the darkest thoughts and deeds of his fellow parishioners that were supposedly reserved only for the priest and, through him, for God, made Matt uncomfortable.

       When the door to the confessional opened and Mrs. Rigsby went to say her three Hail Mary’s, Matt was surprised when Dean stood as if to make his way towards the open door.  “Where are you going?”  Yeah, that was a hint of panic.  He did _not_ need to overhear Dean’s confession.  Didn’t he realize that if Matt could hear a heartbeat in the man standing next to him he could hear a conversation in a silent church even if it was thirty feet away and behind closed doors.           

       Dean shook off Matt’s touch, but answered his question.  “I ain’t been since the last time I saw Pastor Jim.  He always preached that a warrior should enter battle with a pure heart.  If I’m gonna be facing down a demon or two, I’m gonna take his advice.  It can’t hurt.”

       “You’re Catholic?”

       Dean held a hand in the air flipping it back and forth from palm up to palm down, a gesture Matt could easily detect and interpret.  “Eh.” He made a noncommittal noise.  “Dad left us with Pastor Jim enough that Sammy and I both got baptized and made our first confession and first communion.  But we really only go to church when we’re there with him.”

       “But…”

       “Relax, Murdock.  I’m not gonna out you to the good padre.  I’m not that kind of asshole.”  Dean wasn’t unintelligent in spite of the lies he told himself.  He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the man beside him.  “You can hear everything I say in there, right?”      

       “I’ll wait outside,” Matt said hurriedly and Dean watched with narrowed eyes as the lawyer fled the church through the front doors.

       Even outside the church with the sounds of traffic shooshing by on wet pavement and the city bustling around him, Matt could hear Dean greet the priest in his typical irreverent fashion (Hey, Father, hope you’re comfortable ‘cause I gotta tell you a lotta shit I’ve done).  And it wasn’t even like it was accidental, Matt had to focus to pick out Dean’s voice, but he couldn’t _not_ focus on the man.  Damnit, Dean Winchester was an addiction; a one-hit and you’re hooked drug with hooks already digging too deep too fast.  Unfortunately, Dean seemed ready to cut him off cold turkey.

       Matt slumped onto the bench facing the street.  It was his brooding bench where he often waited for Father Lantom to come and offer coffee while he sifted through all the young lawyer’s doubts and dark desires before steering him in the right direction.  Matt startled at the sound of a flock of pigeons taking flight.  It wasn’t an unusual sound in the city, but he hadn’t heard the birds cooing to one another or smelled their unique stench.  Instead…the scent in the air made the hair on the back of Matt’s neck stand on end and quiver as if a lightning bolt was preparing to strike.  “May I sit down?”  The intensity the man put into such a simple question was almost frightening. 

       “I’m waiting for a friend in the church.”

       “He is wise to cleanse himself.”  That did nothing to soothe Matt’s apprehension.  “You would be wise to do the same.”

       “Me and the Lord are good, pal.  I’m not interested in what you’re selling.”

       “I am not selling anything,” the intensity had disappeared and was replaced by almost comical confusion as the man searched the myriad pockets of what Matt realized from the sound of the heavy fabric was an over-large trench coat, perhaps confirming he had nothing to sell.

       “Okay.”  Matt stood.  “The bench is all yours.  I’m going to go back inside.”

       “Good.  Please purify yourself.”

       “Sure thing,” Matt moved to put some distance between him and the crazy trench-coat wearing probably psycho killer. 

       “I don’t intend to harm you, Matt Murdock.”  That stopped Matt dead in his tracks, he didn’t think he could move if he wanted to, and he very much wanted to all of a sudden.  All his instincts were warning him away from oddly intense stranger.  “Quite the contrary, your death would do much harm to the Righteous Man.  Too much.  Already Dean Winchester would give himself over to hell to save your life.  It’s not my place to interfere, but the time is not right.  Someone is interfering with the plan.  He isn’t ready.  Heaven isn’t ready.”

       “Who are you?”

        “A friend.”  The man invaded Matt’s personal space, sharing breath...well, they would have been, but Matt was certain he had stopped breathing.  “The abomination that is Sam Winchester cannot be part of this battle.  You must accompany the Righteous Man to defeat the demons in this city, and you must both must survive.” 

       “What about his father?  Sam overheard the demon say John Winchester was in town.”

       The man’s almost feral growl reflected Matt’s own opinion about the elder Winchester.  “If he is here, he is not to be trusted either.  His sons are bait in a trap.  And he will use them as surely as any demon.  It won’t be the first time. Thankfully, he does not understand their potential.”  He was so close that Matt could tell when he cocked his head as if listening to something that even Matt with his jumped up super senses couldn’t detect.  “I must go before I am missed.  Purify yourself, Daredevil, and prepare for the fight.”  The man hesitated.  “And I should warn you that Dean Winchester is trying to leave through the church basement.  I will help you intercept him.”  That was all the warning Matt received before two fingers touched his forehead and Matt was enveloped in the sound of feathers and the smell of honey and ozone as his equilibrium was disrupted in a feeling of weightlessness.  A split second later his knees buckled and the ground rushed up to meet him.

       “Matt!  What the hell are you…”  Dean’s anger was replaced by concern faster than Matt could even register where he was and how he had gotten there.  “Easy,” Dean’s arms were under his, helping him stand though his legs didn’t seem to remember how.  “What happened?”

       The words wouldn’t come.

       “C’mon, talk to me.  You’re scarin’ me, dude.”  The gruff voice was a contrast to the gentle hands that were searching him for some injury.

       Dean was scared?  Matt had just been abducted by…something.  He gave a slightly delirious chuckle, already anticipating Dean asking whether he’d been probed.  Had he been?  He did a quick internal assessment, but to his relief everything seemed to be intact and unmolested…he chuckled again.

       Dean gave up on trying to lift Matt and simply sat down next to him on the concrete wheelchair ramp leading to the basement entrance of the church, cursing softly as his sore bottom made contact with the rain slick cement.  The barely there gasp had Matt instantly focused on the hunter who was at the center of so much supernatural attention.  His hunter, damnit.

       Dean gave an unmanly squawk (Sorry, Dean, you really did) as Matt ungracefully maneuvered him onto his lap.  “Fuckin’ OW, Dude!  Be careful!  I don’t think I have any skin left back there.”  He latched his arms around the lawyer’s neck like a baby spider monkey because…because it took some of the pressure off his screaming ass, that’s why.  The basement lights were off, the basement used only for bereavement dinners, small wedding receptions, and meetings, and the door Dean had come out of had locked behind him.  The place where they sat was shaded from the sun and any curious eyes.   

       Matt was determined not to screw up again.  He didn’t even think (too much) about the heat coming from Dean’s freshly spanked bottom.  “Are you okay, Dean?  How long was I gone?  Did anything happen?  You weren’t attacked were you?”

       “What?”  Dean loosened his grip and leaned back to scrutinize the man who held him.  He ran his fingers through the dark hair.  “Are you sure you didn’t get hit in the head?  Lester hasn’t been around, has he?”  Finding no lump on his head, Dean removed Matt’s glasses, tilting his head this way and that while wondering if the signs of a concussion were the same for both blind and sighted people.

       Dean’s concern was touching, especially considering that he had been in the process of escaping when he had stumbled upon the shaken and disoriented attorney.  “I’m fine, sweetheart.”  Matt tucked Dean’s head back into the crook of his neck and Dean inhaled the lawyer’s scent of oranges, cloves and mint, finding himself nibbling lightly at a spot right below his jaw.  “What were you doing down here anyway?  Hmmmm?”

       Dean nuzzled deeper into the scent of Matt as if he could hide from the question.  Telling himself that he was still mad at the man wasn’t very convincing when Dean was cuddled on his lap…he was sitting in the lap of the Daredevil, The Man Without Fear, The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.  Did that make Dean Lois Lane?

       “Where were you going to go, Dean?”

       “Josie’s to get Sammy,” he admitted.  “Maybe we’d try to find Dad if he’s here.”

       “I’ve known you for a day, Dean, and I already know how much your family means to you, but that demon knows it too.”

       Dean sighed heavily, his breath warm and damp on Matt’s neck.  “I know.  I just didn’t know where else to go.”

       “Baby, I’m so sorry.  You gave me something so perfect and instead of telling you that, I made you think I was angry.  Made you think I was disappointed.”

       “I was a fuckin’ baby.”

       “You were vulnerable,” Matt corrected.  “You trusted me to take care of you and I failed.”

       “I can take care of myself.”

       Matt didn’t argue.  “I know you can, precious.  You take care of yourself and Sam and your Dad.  Even Josie and people like me who you just met.  That’s why letting me take care of you is such a privilege.”

       “Did you just call me _precious_?” Dean snorted and Matt knew then he was forgiven.  “You know that’s creepy, right?  Gollum?  Lord of the Rings?  Any of that sound familiar?”  

       Matt surprised the sighted man by rasping out a fairly accurate imitation of Gollum’s eerie “My precious.”   He stole a kiss as Dean gave an exaggerated shudder.  “Foggy made me watch the DVD’s with him and gave me the play by play so I knew what was happening.”  Taking advantage of the fact that he was now back in Dean’s good graces, Matt rubbed a hand over the seat of the hunter’s jeans.  The heat was searing.  Digging his fingers into the abused flesh and cursing the denim, Matt didn’t even try to hold back his sound of pleasure.  Dean shifted back and forth to increase the contact, making soft moans in the process.

       “Church…”  Matt gasped out several minutes later, Dean’s subtle movements had become frantic make-up sex humping that had both men on the verge of coming in their pants.  Dean’s mewl of disappointment almost broke Matt’s resolve.  “Tonight, puppy,” he promised.

       Eventually Dean’s needy whimpers tapered off and his eyes that were screwed shut fluttered open revealing golden green orbs filled with his usual defiance.  “So how did you know I was sneaking out the back door?  Did one of your super senses give me away?”

       Matt had recovered enough from his shock that he felt he could tell Dean about his trench-coated visitor without babbling incoherently.  He opened his mouth:  “In the course of its six to eight week life span, the average worker bee will fly a distance roughly equal to one and a half times the circumference of the earth.”

       Dean blinked at Matt and the lawyer didn’t need his eyes or any of his super senses to describe that look he couldn't see.  He would have been looking at himself the same way.  He heard his voice, he felt the rumble of words form in his larynx, he knew what he wanted to say, but those were not the words he said.  He cleared his throat and tried again:  “Honeybees are not native to North America, but were brought to this continent by the early European settlers.”

       Matt could feel the color drain from his face.  He gave Dean a small push and the hunter scooted off his lap and tried to help Matt stand.  He only made it halfway up as he doubled over and tried to breathe through the impending panic attack, completely oblivious to his wet and wrinkled suit, and only vaguely aware of Dean’s hands massaging his back and the soothing words coming from the younger man.  Matt swore that when he internally cursed the intense stranger he even felt a sting.

       What was with Matt and the sudden honeybee fixation?  If it was a secret code, Dean was too stupid to figure it out.  If it was meant to be funny, the joke was over his head.  If Matt really was that obsessed with bees, then Dean was totally on board with dripping honey on his ass while he waited to be impaled on Matt’s stinger.  However, the panic attack was too real to be a joke.  Matt Murdock was terrified and that immediately put Dean on high alert.  After witnessing the honest-to-God superhero spew a few more tidbits of honeybee trivia while growing increasingly distressed, Dean dropped to his knees, taking Matt’s face in his hands.  “Listen to me, babe.  Take deep breaths and listen to my voice.  Can you do that?  Just like you coached me last night at Josie’s.  In.  Out.  Don’t try to say anything yet.  Just breathe.  Okay?”  He carded his fingers through the soft dark strands of hair damp from Matt’s cold sweat as he continued to talk the man down and place him back in control of his emotions.  Once Matt rose more than three-quarters upright, unclenched his jaw, and was taking deep and regular breaths, Dean tried again.  “Something happened while I was in the church?  Don’t try to tell me what,” he said quickly to stop the lawyer from attempting an explanation.  “Just yes or no.”

       “Yes,” Matt nodded.  “Yes,” he repeated louder, his relief obvious.  “Fuck, yes.”

       “Demon?”

       Matt shook his head.  “I don’t…” he tested his voice and the words he wanted to form.  “I don’t think so.”

       “Did it hurt you?”  Dean couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.  He was gonna kill whatever monster hurt his new…friend, the word still sounded strange to Dean.  He was gonna shoot it full of silver, cut off its freakin’ head, and burn it to ashes.  He was gonna…

       “Dean!”  Matt’s voice cut through Dean’s murderous visions.  “I’m okay, baby.  Scared shitless, but not hurt.  I’m okay.”  He rubbed the tight muscles in the back of Dean’s neck and Dean suddenly heard the noises he had been making.  Matt found himself on the receiving end of a fierce kiss.  “It’s okay, puppy.  I’m okay.  It’s not your fault.”  He already knew the guilt Dean would add to the weight he carried.  “It’s not your fault,” he repeated, knowing Dean needed to hear the absolution even if he wouldn’t believe it.

       “Can you describe it?” Dean finally asked.  “Maybe I can figure out what it was.”

       Matt started to say something and then shook his head.  “I don’t think I can.”  He paused and then spoke slowly, testing each word, “I don’t…I don’t think he meant to hurt me or even scare me.  He wanted to help.”

       “Help?”

       “Help us.”

       “Us?” Dean echoed.

       Matt didn’t like the way Dean still questioned his involvement.  “You’re not doing this alone, Dean.  I thought we’d settled that, but if you need more encouragement…”  A threatening hand squeezed Dean’s tender ass.

       “No!” Dean was quick to respond.

       “So no more sneaking out back exits and basement doors.”

       “Lot of good it did to try.” 

       Matt bit the protruding lower lip of Dean’s pout as he tapped the hunter’s bottom.  “Remember that.” 

       Dean’s curiosity proved more powerful than his urge to sulk.  “So honeybees…?”

       Matt tensed, wondering if he could explain:  “Honey is the only food that includes all substances necessary to sustain life.”  No, he couldn’t.

       Watching Matt with the eyes of a hunter and observing the man’s internal struggle and frustration, Dean rephrased the question.  “When was the last time you had a discussion about bees?”

       Matt sighed as he was able to articulate vehemently the word, “Never!”

       “So this is because of whatever you encountered while I was in confession?”

       “In her short lifespan, a worker bee only produces 1/12th teaspoon of honey.”

       “I take it that’s a _yes_.”  Dean couldn’t help the grin that stole across his face even though the situation was admittedly concerning since Matt was obviously being influenced by some supernatural creature, but it was a kinder, gentler...aw hell, funnier influence than the one that had taken control of Sam.  Sam.  Dean’s grin shriveled up and disappeared.  “So…I uh… sorta told Father Lantom that I was here with you when I asked him for the holy water.  Not like _with_ you with you but…you know…with you.  ‘Cause he was giving me the eye.  You know, the one a priest gives you when he thinks you’re messin’ with him and he’s getting’ ready to call down holy justice to smite you?”

       Even if Dean hadn’t possessed the face of an angel and the body of a Greek god; even if he didn’t drive Matt insane with want; even if he wasn’t loyal and protective and intelligent and a thousand other things that he was:  he made Matt laugh.  He captured Dean around the neck and pulled him close as he planted a kiss to the man’s frown-wrinkled forehead.  “So my naughty little angel needs me to get his holy water from the scary priest?”

       “Hmmph.  So says the Devil.  Told you we should’ve just taken it.”

       There was a rumble of thunder causing a flock of pigeons to take flight overhead.  The rustle of wings nearly sent Matt back to his knees and he recalled his conversation with the being.  “And…I need to see if Father has time for one more confession.”

       Matt proceeded up the ramp ahead of Dean, the younger man’s laughter once again ringing through the air like discordant church bells.  “Dude, you’ve been sitting on the wet ground so long you look like you pissed your pants!”

       Somehow, pointing out that the wet spot was in the wrong place didn’t take away the sting of his blush. 


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 

       After hearing Matt’s confession, Father Lantom led the two men back across the prayer garden to the rectory.  Dean’s eyes were drawn to the grotto like magnets to iron as they passed it by, his distraction causing him to stumble over a soft spot in the ground.  Matt had no problem catching the off-balance hunter, happy for the excuse to conveniently steal another squeeze of Dean’s ass while the priest had his back turned.  Dean’s soft gasp and full body shudder in response made him even happier. 

       Just like he had when he first entered Matt’s apartment, Dean bounded into the priest’s home like a Labrador on meth and commenced the exploration of his surroundings.  Matt thought it was adorable.  He was aware of Father Lantom’s scrutiny, but it wasn’t unkind, merely…curious. 

       “How long have you known each other?”

       “We met last night,” Matt admitted, bracing himself for the priest’s reaction.

       After a moment’s pause to process the information, the expected condemnation never came.  Instead the man surprised Matt by asking, “Your friend said the two of you were interested in the acquisition of several gallons of holy water?”

       Matt winced.  For all of Dean’s deceptions, deflections and denials, he could be guilelessly blunt at times.  “We are.”

       The priest nodded thoughtfully, watching Dean as the young man wandered through his office pulling books off shelves and thumbing through them…  “Unlike holy oil, holy water can be created at any time so there is no hardship to the Church in your request.” …picking up statues and turning them over in his hands for closer observation…  “Like holy oil or any other consecrated object, however, the Church has special rules in place regarding its use and disposal.”  …tapping out a rhythm on a tribal drum brought back from a missionary trip to Africa…  “I must ask what you intend to do with it.” 

       Taking a page out of Dean’s playbook, Matt went for the blunt approach:  “So, Father…I met a demon.”  Dean who had been listening as he inventoried Father Lantom’s collection of Yankee’s caps slapped a palm over his face as he shook his head.   

       An hour and a half later, after a detailed explanation of hunters, the grisly unsolved murders, some rudimentary demonololgy and Zoroastrian theology, and a lengthy phone call to Pastor Jim…Father Lantom sat speechless, opening his mouth, only to close it again. 

       “I think you broke him,” Dean hissed, giving Matt a nudge that silently conveyed the message _Do Something!_

       “Father…?”

       “Boys?”

       “Yes, sir,” the two younger men spoke in unison.

       “Kindly shut up for a moment and give an old man time to alter his world-view in peace.”

       “Uh…yes, sir,” Matt replied.

       Dean’s phone began to ring again.  By now, Matt was conditioned to expect the worst from that sound and he was in awe at the kind of strength it must take for Dean to answer that dreaded ringtone.  Dean frowned at a number he didn’t recognize.  “This must be the expert Pastor Jim was talking about.”  He excused himself and walked to the far side of the room.  “This is Dean.”

       Father Lantom asked if Matt wanted to join him in the kitchen while he made coffee.  Matt knew that was the priest’s way of getting him alone to ask the questions that Matt wasn’t ready to answer.  It would also give Dean another chance to escape.  He declined the offer with a shake of his head, all of his attention on his hunter.

       “Boy, it’s been too long.  How you doin’, son?”  The gruff Midwestern twang was thick with words unsaid.

       “Bobby?”  Dean didn’t wait for confirmation.  He had been what...eleven or twelve the last time he’d heard it, but he knew that voice.  Hearing it now…hearing that man call him son after so many years…after so much shit…  “How the hell did you get this number, old man?” he growled.

       “Cool yer jets, boy.  Jim Murphy gave it to me.  Said you needed my help with some Zoroastrian lore.”

       “I don’t need nothin’ from you.”

       “Bullshit.  Now stop actin’ like yer stubborn fool of a father, an’ talk to me, son.  I’ve missed you, Dean.”

       “You don’t get to call me son!  An’ you don’t get to miss me!  You kicked us out with a loaded shotgun at our backs!”

       “That gun was fer yer Daddy, boy.  I’d never harm a hair on yer head.”

       “Then why’d you let us go?  Why haven’t you called before now?”  Matt could hear the hurt behind the harsh and angry tone of Dean’s voice.

       “Jesus, Dean, you were a kid.  What do you remember about that night?”

       Dean and Sam had both loved Uncle Bobby who didn’t make them train every day, and took them swimming in the lake on his property when the weather was nice, and taught Dean how to throw a baseball and rebuild an engine.  Being told they could never come back…  Sam had cried for hours wrapped in his big brother’s arms in the backseat of the Impala while their father cursed and yelled at Dean.  Dean had held back his tears, trying to be the man his father expected.  He didn’t need his Dad to tell him everything was his fault, he knew.  Maybe if he had shouldered more responsibility, taken better care of Sam, not taken advantage of the man’s kindness, then things wouldn’t have ended the way they had.  Dean shouldn’t have let Bobby cook their meals and do their laundry.  He should have been helping Bobby keep the house clean.  He must have made the man mad following him around, always underfoot and asking questions.  He should have been quieter and stayed out of his way…  “I remember you an’ Dad fightin’ and you pulled a shotgun on him and told us all to get out and never come back.  Dad said you were pissed that he dumped us off and you didn’t want us comin’ back an’ forcin’ you to babysit.”  The memories made Dean’s eyes sting. 

       “And eight months ago when he came to me fer help yer Dad told me that you an’ Sam got out of the life.  That you were in the Marine’s stationed in Afghanistan an’ Sam was in college.  Anyone ever told you that yer Daddy lies to git what he wants?”

       “Well, I don’t want nothin’ from you.”  Dean pulled the phone away from his ear to flip it shut and end the trip down a memory-lane fucked up with pot holes the size of a damned VW bus, but he should have known his new found ally would take charge of the situation…and of him.

       Matt put out his hand in a silent command and Dean passed him the phone which the lawyer held momentarily to his chest to muffle the conversation as he used his other arm to pull the trembling hunter close.  “Who is it?”

       “Pastor Jim’s idea of a fuckin’ joke,” Dean snarled though he pressed himself closer to Matt.  “His demon expert.

       “Someone you know?”

       “Someone I used to know.”

       Matt knew better than to ask questions that Dean wouldn’t answer, so he asked the important ones quickly:  “Does he know what he’s doing and do you trust him?”

       Dean started to argue…stopped…made another attempt…and another, sounding almost like a car engine turning over and failing to ignite.  “Yeah and yeah,” he finally grumbled.

       “You want me to talk to him?  Or do you feel like putting on your big boy britches and handling this?”

       Dean swiped the phone back with another growl, this one more for show.  “Hey Bobby, it’s Dean again.  This better be good.  Whatcha got?”  He scurried forward to avoid the swat Matt aimed at his sore ass, shooting a glare and sticking his tongue out behind him.

       “I can tell what you’re doing, Dean,” he scolded.  “I’d put that back where it belongs, little boy, unless you want another lesson on manners.”  Matt returned to his seat, leaving a sputtering hunter behind him. 

       “Don’t let me disturb your mental housekeeping, Father,” he said to the priest who had returned, still looking a bit shell shocked, with three mugs of coffee in his hands.  “I’ve had to do quite a bit of interior redecorating myself since last night.”

       “Yet you seem happier than I’ve ever known you to be,” the priest noted, surprisingly calmly after witnessing at least a portion of the interaction between the two younger men.

       “Maybe knowing there are real demons out there and knowing what they do makes me feel less like a monster myself.”

       The priest doubted that was the only reason, or even the biggest one.  No, he had suspicions that Matt’s sudden lightheartedness was more the result of the foul-mouthed choir boy who had accompanied him into the church that morning.  But, he could only work with the reason Matt had provided, and that one was an ongoing struggle they had addressed before.  “You’ve never been a monster Matthew.  You struggle.  We all do.  Your struggles aren’t necessarily worse because of what you do and who you are, but they do have the ability to affect more people.  Still, in the end, it’s your soul on the line.  Everyone’s struggle comes down to that.”

       “But knowing there’s such a thing as pure evil…”

       “Evil is evil, Matthew.  Don’t forget that.”  The priest took a sip of his coffee, face scrunching into a grimace when he realized he’d let it grow cold. He watched the young man across the room with sadness.  He’d said nothing of the implication that Dean and Matt had spent the night together.  Neither man had confessed a sexual relationship between them when seeking forgiveness from the priest, but that didn’t mean the priest didn’t have eyes and it wasn’t just the vivid love bite on Dean’s neck that he saw.  If the troubled hunter had anything to do with lifting a bit of the darkness that plagued the young attorney, well…Matthew deserved some happiness.  And Dean…he had heard the boy’s confession and absolved him of his sins…for all the good it did.  Dean Winchester believed in demons and monsters and a hundred impossible things, but he didn’t believe in himself or that he could be (or even should be) loved or forgiven.  A man with the face of an angel and the smirk of an imp who called himself a soldier, but believed he was nothing more than a weapon to be used.

       Well…now that he had Jim Murphy’s phone number, he was going to give the other priest a call about Dean Winchester.  It was the boy that needed saving far more than the soul inside the pretty package.  He finished his lukewarm coffee as Dean strode back to them waving the notes he’d written onto the pages of a hymnal and then torn out.  Father Lantom pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger and sighed.

       The priest left the room momentarily to collect more coffee and the fax Robert Singer was sending.  Dean divided his own notes into two piles on a table the priest used for counseling couples and small meetings, then went to stand in front of Matt, deciding the time was right for more magic touches.  Standing caged and protected between the other man’s body, his arms, and the bookcase behind him, Dean pushed his nose into the spot below the hinge of Matt’s jaw and inhaled deeply of citrus and spice.  Tilting his head slightly to give Dean better access, Matt rubbed his cheek against Dean’s hair, feeling the short spikes give way to softness.  Like so much of Dean, the spikes were an illusion.

       “Everything okay, puppy?”

       “Not a puppy.”  Dean protested the new term of endearment, but nuzzled deeper into the chosen spot.  God, Dean wanted to bury himself in the man’s embrace, surrounded by his scent, and sleep for a week.  Let someone else deal with the monsters and all the damned phone calls for once.  He spared a half second’s curiosity to wonder once again whether Matt Murdock was some type of supernatural creature, because nothing else that came to mind could explain how he had come to trust the man so completely and so quickly.  Dean didn’t do trust.  He’d been raised on daily doses of suspicion the way other kids were raised on Flintstone’s Vitamins; taught to be wary and constantly on the lookout for threats both supernatural and human.  He wasn’t used to people trusting him either.  He didn’t blame them.  Pretty much the only questions he ever answered honestly came from gum-popping waitresses asking him what he wanted to eat, did he need a refill, and would he like ice cream with his pie.  

       Matt circled one arm loosely around Dean’s waist and let the other hand tease the back of his neck where his hair was shortest, the bristles rough against his fingers, but not like a beard, more like the feel of the fur at the end of a puppy’s snout.  Yeah, Dean better get used to that word.  As he heard Father Lantom’s footsteps, he patted his hunter’s backside as a preface to breaking apart, but Dean held him tighter and something swelled inside Matt’s chest at the little sound from Dean’s throat.  He’d tried several times to convince the honeybee obsessed monster that had stolen his free will and invaded his mind that Dean needed to know he was in danger, but when he opened his mouth to test the words, he knew it hadn’t worked.  He’d tried silently demanding answers and more information from the creature:  who or what he was; what did he mean by the Righteous Man and Dean giving himself to hell; how did they fight demons that couldn’t be killed…?  There was no answer, though somehow Matt was sure his questions were heard.  He squeezed Dean, reluctant to let go.  For however long Dean belonged to him (and Matt knew it would only be a few days, a week at most), he wished he could tuck the hunter into his bed (naked, of course) and swaddle him in silk (the fabric Matt found easiest on his own sensitive skin).  He wanted to keep Dean’s bottom red, his lips kiss-swollen and smiling, his nipples sore, his skin marked with signs of Matt’s possessive streak, his hole stretched and slick and ready to be claimed again and again...  Damn.  Matt’s cock had come to life and was ready to do some claiming.   

       Dean broke away when he too could hear their solitude was about to end as the priest returned.  He turned back to face the desk, wiggling his rump teasingly against the tented crotch of Matt’s pants before nudging him over with his hip.  Matt almost shuddered as he felt the cool demeanor of the professional killer slide into place, hiding all traces of the affectionate, playful…and frightened (Matt clenched his fists in a sudden flare of rage)…little boy hiding inside.

       “Did Bobby send them?”  The voice which was too rough for the pretty face was firmly back in place.

       Father Lantom nodded, holding out the faxed documents to the hunter.  When he learned what the man on the phone was sending, the priest couldn’t help blessing the computer, the fax machine, the printer and a ream of copy paper before accepting the communication.  Well, it couldn’t hurt.  Contrary to Hollywood movies, not all Catholic priests received extensive training in demon fighting.  Now he had another reason to stay in contact with Father Murphy.  Trying to hide his trembling hand, the priest gave Dean the lengthy fax transmission. 

       The first thing Matt hated about being blind was the lack of color.  A very close second was this.  Whether it was a love poem or a newspaper, a pleading in one of his court cases or the evidence to bring down a criminal empire (Matt thought bitterly); words, images, numbers on paper were meaningless.  No matter how he honed his skills, how hard he trained, he could never get that back.  “What are we looking at?”

       “A devil’s trap,” Dean’s tone was reverent.  “Holy shit.  If this thing works…”

       “Language,” Father Lantom intoned though it sounded as if he knew he’d already lost the battle.  Matt snickered as he imagined Dean’s confession liberally sprinkled with a variety of words that would cause the hair on the priest’s head (if he had any, Matt didn’t know) to stand on end while he tried vainly to maintain decorum.

       “Sorry, padre.  It’s just…  This is it.  You get a demon inside one of these things and you just evened the fucking playing field…sorry…I mean, we just fucking evened the playing field…shit…I mean…”

       “Just tell us what you mean,” came the priest’s long suffering encouragement.

       “Inside this thing here, a demon is vulnerable.  It can’t walk across the boundary, it can’t smoke out, it can’t fling you across the room or pin you to a fucking wall…”

       The good father decided one freebie wouldn’t hurt.

       “What is it?”  Matt asked.

       “A diagram…  It’s pretty elaborate, but I’m no slouch with a can of spray paint.  It’s basically concentric circles and in the very center is a drawing of a scorpion.  There’s Latin around the outer border:  _Thou shalt go upon the lion and the adder, the young lion and the dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet_ …  I think it’s from Psalms.”  He perused the rest of the diagram intently before noticing the silence.  “What?”

       Thankfully Father Lantom spoke up because Matt was trying to think of a way to ask (without getting himself rightfully punched) how a high school drop out could effortlessly translate Latin.  “It’s rare that young men your age have that much knowledge of Latin or the Bible.”

       Dean’s grin shone like a halo upon the man.  “It’s a side effect of having a Catholic priest who believes in the supernatural as a substitute dad.  For every four letter word he caught me sayin’, I had to translate a chapter out of one of his old Bibles.”

       The priest found himself drawn in to the young man’s smile and returned it with one of his own.  “I’d hate to hear how much you cursed before he tried to break you of the habit.”

       “Made it most of the way through The Song of Solomon before Dad decided I was big enough to help him hunt during summer break.”  Matt swore he could see Dean’s spirit dim.  “Of course, Sammy’s better at translations than me.  We should probably have him double check.  I’d hate to screw this up.”

       “Your translation is perfect,” the priest informed him.  “And you did it quite a bit faster than me.  I think it’s safe to say your skills are more than adequate.”

       “Well…But…”

       “Dean Winchester,” Matt snapped crisply. “Do you and I need to have a talk about how to accept a compliment?”

       Dean’s wide eyes locked onto the lawyer’s face and his hands moved involuntarily to shield his still burning butt cheeks.

       Matt clicked his tongue disapprovingly at Dean’s silence though the gesture that accompanied Dean’s reaction was priceless.  “I assume that means we do.”  There was that deliciously wicked half smile again.  Damn, but that smile did things to Dean.  Things that shouldn’t be happening when he was standing in the rectory of a church sandwiched between Matt and a priest old enough to be his grandfather.  “I’ll add that to the list of matters we need to discuss.”

       Wait!  There was a list?

       “Yes, Dean, there is a list,” Matt smirked, knowing what thoughts were racing through Dean’s head as fast has his panicked pulse rate.

       “Asshole.”

       “Language!”  The priest went in search of a slug of whiskey to warm his second cup of coffee...and ward off his impending apoplectic attack.  When he returned (the whiskey also making it easier to pretend he didn’t notice Dean’s newly reddened and well-kissed lips and the self-satisfied smirk on Matthew’s face), Dean finished explaining the outer portions of the elaborate diagram so Matt could picture it in his head.  This time both older men let Dean’s quick translation of the Latin _and_ Hebrew inscriptions pass without external comment.

       “So this will trap the daeva?” Matt asked.

       “Mmmmm…”  It was a thoughtful sound Dean made as he studied the diagram.  “That’s the catch.  Bobby’s certain it will work on Meg, but we don’t really know if daeva fall into the same category.  Better to assume it won’t than assume it will.”  He tapped the second stack of notes.  “This is everything Bobby could tell me about daeva and the exorcism ritual from Zoroastrian lore.”  He looked at Matt apologetically:  “I have to tell Sam about all this.  The kid is a whiz at research and there’s still so much we don’t know…and…”

       “It’s okay, Dean.”

       “Okay.”  The younger man sounded relieved that Matt hadn’t made a fight over the issue.

       As Dean wandered off to make his phone call, the priest studied the print-outs from Robert Singer closely and absently waved Matt closer before reminding himself that the man couldn’t see the gesture (and that his focus was solely on the hunter).  “Matthew, do you know much about the amulet Dean wears around his neck?”

       Matt moved closer to the priest hunched over the documents on his desk.  “He said his brother, Sam, gave it to him when they were kids.  He doesn’t know much about it himself.”

       The priest pointed to an illustration on one of the faxed papers as he read the caption to Matt.  “The horned god Mithra is an angelic deity from Zoroastrian lore.  He is referred to as he of the thousand eyes and ears, the well-formed one of green eyes and golden skin, the Guardian of Truth.  Heaven’s warrior who rescued the Righteous Man from hell, and with his mace he crushed the skulls of the daeva; he protects humanity from evil.  He is the god of contracts, bindings, and cattle, and judges the souls of the dead.  Mithra is often associated with the sun, the bane of demons.”

            Matt felt the blood drain from his face, the buzzing of a thousand angry bees in his ears.  While in the church, the stained glass window of the green-eyed archangel shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this is not a scholarly work on comparative theology. I don't intend to offend Catholics or Zoroastrians, but I've taken Dan Brown style liberties (The DaVinci Code) to suit my purposes and hopefully write an interesting story. In particular, the description of Mithra read by Father Lantom combines aspects of two Zoroastrian entities, Mithra and Hom. Interestingly, for all Supernatural fans (or maybe just me) translations of the real Zoroastrian exorcism ritual found in the Vendidad make reference to The Righteous Man. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and for all your encouragement!


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

 

       Dean stood with the other two men, surveying the kaleidoscope of rainbow colored glass scattered prettily across the white marble floor of the church.  A backing of safety glass shielded all the stained glass windows of St. Patrick’s Church from rocks, damaging winds, wayward baseballs and other external forces.  However, the protective glass was still intact and undamaged in the space behind where there had once been the image of St. Michael the Archangel with sword raised in preparation of delivering a death blow to the serpentine dragon under his foot.  The sharp scent of ozone permeated the interior of the church, causing Matt to hold the cane in his hand as a weapon, ready to strike out and defend them all if necessary.  Instead of the honey smell from earlier, underlying the smell of electrical sparks was the fragrance of summer: blackberries, bay leaves and daisies under a hot sun.

       It was Dean’s turn to be skeptical.  “Let me get this straight.  You think this Zoroastrian god, Mithra, is Michael the Archangel?”

       “You can’t deny the similarities, Dean,” Matt argued.  “As religious traditions evolved and moved into new territory they often adopted aspects of other faiths and merged them together.”

       “So did Michael become Mithra or vice versa?”

       “Does it matter?”

       “You tell me, it’s your theory.” 

       Matt’s mouth set itself into a thin line of disapproval, and Dean was certain he saw a twitch in his spanking hand.

       “I’m sorry.”  The apology was sincere.  Dean ran his fingers through his short hair.  “It’s just…on top of everything else…adding an archangel and a god to the mix is kinda overwhelming.  I don’t want you to be right.”  He leaned against the side of a pew, ignoring the pain in his backside, and stared at the blank space Michael had recently occupied.  Angels weren’t real.  Not even Pastor Jim believed they still existed, though he said they once had.  If they were real, where had they been all this time?  Why had no one seen them?  Why didn’t they care?  And why did they care now? 

       “Maybe this is a good thing,” the priest interjected.  “After all, Michael defeated Lucifer.”  He wasn’t ready to believe there was an archangel in Hell’s Kitchen, but he could tell both men needed a pep talk and this was the best he could muster at the moment.

       “Nothing about this is good.”  Matt had no doubts about that in spite of that wonderful smell.  The fact that the smell hadn’t dissipated was worrisome.  That it seemed strongest around Dean not only scared the hell out of him, but infuriated him on an almost primal level, sending his possessive streak into overdrive.  He was sure neither of the other men could detect the scent, like no one but Matt had been able to smell the stench of sulfur from the demon Meg.  Neither Dean nor Father Lantom had mentioned the fragrance in the air, and it was certainly worth mentioning, but when he had tried to bring it up he’d instead described the swarming patterns of honeybees.  Goddamnit!  Matt was never eating honey again.

       He located Dean’s presence and positioned himself by the hunter’s side, placing an arm around Dean’s waist.  Now wasn’t the time to worry about Father Lantom’s reaction to his choice of sexual partners.  Within the confines of his mind, he issued a warning to the winged being he had encountered outside the church…a creature he was now mostly convinced had been an angel.  And…if the strength of the scent was any indication of the strength of the angel, Honey was decidedly less powerful than Summer.  He wanted to get Dean away from this place.

       “Father, is there anything we can do?”

       “No,” the priest assured him.  “Thank you, Matthew.  I’ve called the insurance company and the bishop’s office.  I think I’m going to give Father Murphy a call about this as well and see what he thinks.”

       “I’m so sorry, Father,” Dean began.  “I never thought…”

       “This isn’t your fault, Dean,” Father Lantom interrupted.  He could tell Dean refused to accept the reprieve by the guilty hunch of the young man’s shoulders and decided to attempt a bit of tough love.  “Son, the world doesn’t revolve around you.  Whatever is happening here, whatever happened in your past, whatever will happen tomorrow…you’re not the only one making decisions.  It’s just as self-centered to believe everything is your fault as it is to demand that everything be your way.”  His words only seemed to add to the young man’s burden.  He had one more trick up his sleeve.  “Matthew, you have my blessing to add this topic to the list of items you plan to _discuss_ with Dean should he need a reminder.”

       Aha!  That got the attention of both men.  And the looks on their faces…  The priest couldn’t help but laugh softly at them.  “Give an old man a little credit, boys.  You haven’t actually been subtle.”  He wrapped them both in the same embrace.  “Take care of each other.”  Stepping back he added, “I’ll have someone drop the holy water by Josie’s.  And if you need me, you know where I am.”

       After thanking the priest and pausing long enough to let Dean fill the holy water flask in his pocket from the baptismal font, Matt ushered Dean out of the church as quickly as he could.  Once again, storm clouds followed them and lightning forked through a sky more suited to midnight than morning as the clouds burst apart to release the rain.  “Would you believe the forecast for the week was supposed to be nothing but sun?”

       “Demons,” Dean had to raise his voice to be heard over the thunder.  “I don’t know how I know, but…  Pastor Jim and Uncle Bobby always thought it might be possible to track demons by changes in weather patterns.  I never believed it until now.  Damn, Matt…  Whatever’s going on here, it’s big.”   

       As the rain became a deluge, Matt located a sheltered doorway and pulled Dean inside.  “How did you…?”  Dean grunted as he was pushed into a wall and pinned into place by Matt’s arms and body.  “Never mind.”

       Exposing Dean’s neck, Matt cursed as the cloying scent from the church filled his nose.  “You still smell like him,” he growled as he began rubbing his cheek against Dean’s skin until it was raw from the scrape of the dark stubble already casting the faintest shadow on the lawyer’s face.

       “Who?  The priest?”  Dean started to turn his head towards the conversation and had it forced back to where Matt wanted it. “Ah!”

       “Angel.”  Matt’s tongue swept over Dean’s neck and damn if he didn’t taste blackberries.  “It fucking claimed you.”  He bit and sucked another bruise onto the hunter’s neck as Dean cried out.  “Put his scent all over you.”

       “There are no angels,” the argument strained through clenched teeth and a groan, but Dean began to tremble, no longer so sure.

       “…can’t have you,” Matt assured him.  “I’ll be damned if I’m letting you go, puppy.  I’ll fight heaven and hell.  You’re mine.”

       Mine.  It was that word, Dean decided, that made Matt Murdock different.  Different from his father who had only ever seemed capable of tolerating Dean’s presence for short periods of time before finding his next hunt, his next escape.  Different from his brother who left him behind as soon as he could and made no secret that he planned to leave again.  Different than Bobby who let Dean think he wasn’t welcome back and Pastor Jim who never asked him if he wanted to stay.  Different from Cassie who ran the moment she learned the truth.  Mine.  Dean knew it had to be a lie, but he didn’t care.  It felt so good to be told he was wanted that he was willing to pretend.  “Yours.”  It was closer to the truth than Dean wanted to admit.  Too late he remembered:  Matt would know.

       “Dean?”  Matt raised his head from Dean’s neck.

       “Yours,” Dean repeated in a stronger voice.  “And I want them all to know it.”  With rough movements he opened Matt’s belt and his pants before dropping to his knees.  “Anyone can see, babe.  You like that, don't you?” he taunted the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.  Not that many people were out in such a storm, but it was the idea that mattered.  "You want them to see who I belong to."  He stared into Matt Murdock's face, issuing a challenge.  “If you want me, prove it,” he demanded.  “Claim me right now.”

       Matt gave the hunter’s face a tender caress, fighting the desire to be everything but gentle.  “If you mean it, open your mouth, Dean.  I’m gonna fuck your throat," his voice scratched like the stubble on his cheeks.  "You want that, puppy?”  He gave Dean one last chance to back out.

       Dean nodded, words were suddenly beyond him and he was as eager as Matt.  He reached for the other man’s dick, only to have his hand slapped away.  “No hands.  You’ll take what I give you, baby.”  A fist gripped his hair so tightly that pinpricks of pain made him gasp.

       He nodded again, eyes fastened on the lawyer’s hand that freed his cock and carefully fed it to Dean.  Matt moved slowly for now, but he didn’t pause to give Dean time to adjust until every last bit filled the hunter’s mouth and the curls of Matt’s dark pubic hair tickled his nose.  Then Matt waited, his thick length hardening and expanding even more making it impossible for Dean to breathe.  The younger man’s throat spasmed as he fought his gag reflex and the natural panic that came from a lack of oxygen.  Tears leaked from Dean’s eyes and spots danced in his vision before Matt pulled out, giving Dean just a moment to cough and draw in a breath then he thrust in again, the muscles of Dean’s throat constricting around him.  Matt groaned.  “Good, Dean.  You’re so beautiful.  You can’t imagine the way I see you…”  Pressing fingers to Dean’s cheeks, he could feel himself filling Dean’s mouth.  Closing a hand around Dean’s neck, he felt the outline of his dick as it choked the hunter.  Dean's hands grabbed onto Matt's thighs, not for control, but comfort.  Touching his lover made Dean confident, secure in the knowledge that this was real, that Matt wasn't going away.  More than half a dozen times Matt slid out of Dean’s mouth and in once more, holding Dean tightly so he couldn’t pull away (as if he would), so Dean had to take every bit Matt had to give for as long as Matt wanted.  “You were made for my cock, weren’t you.  Not fighting me at all…”  Matt had never been with someone as strong as Dean, someone who didn't make him hold back, someone who wasn't afraid and didn't make Matt afraid in return.

       "Yours," Dean croaked in agreement.  "Mine," he rasped as he tried to capture Matt's dick in his mouth once more, the firm fist in his hair holding him back.

       "This is gonna be rough, sweetheart.  I don’t want to hurt you, but…  You’re so perfect, Dean.  I can’t hold back much longer.”  Dean’s hand reached up to squeeze Matt’s wrist in silent consent.  This was what he wanted.  This time, Matt thrust in hard and deep, pulling back out quickly and doing it again.  Spit leaked from Dean’s mouth and dribbled down his chin, but he couldn’t swallow, couldn’t do anything but keep his lips folded over his teeth to protect Matt, and keep his tongue pressed flat and out of the way as the lawyer drove in again and again, taking what Dean offered.  Matt’s phrases of speech and declarations of possession eventually gave way to more animalistic grunts as the rhythm of his thrusts became faster and harder. 

       “Mine,” he growled as he finally pulled out of his hunter’s mouth, one fist still in Dean’s hair as the other pumped his wet cock.  Dean’s groan was silent, his voice wrecked from the brutal fucking of his throat, but he kept his mouth open to catch the ribbons of come that splattered across his face moments later as Matt marked him a new way, covering the angel’s scent with his own.  Dean barely had time to swallow and lick his lips before his face was pressed to the softening dick.  Obediently, Dean, cleaned the come off Matt, smearing more on him in the process and cleaning that off as well.  Damn, those little kitten licks were on the verge of getting Matt hard again when he stopped Dean and the younger man reluctantly tucked his lover’s cock back into his pants and fastened them. 

       Matt’s fingers found the come on Dean’s face and began rubbing it into his hunter’s skin, especially the skin of his neck until Matt was satisfied…or as satisfied as he could be until that night when he planned to bury himself in Dean’s tight little hole until Dean was screaming and begging for his own release.  Then maybe Matt would spank him and take him again.  It took a few minutes for Matt’s fuck-fried brain cells to begin working again and he became aware of the younger man still kneeling on the wet cement, huddled against Matt’s legs as the lawyer’s fingers carded through Dean’s hair.  This was more than a one-night-stand, it had been since the beginning.  Not that either man led the kind of life that would allow that potential to develop, but...  Well…a relationship was one thing and feelings were another.  “Thank you, Dean.”

       Dean’s arms felt so heavy, but he wrapped them even tighter around Matt’s legs. 

       Reverently, the Man Without Fear, stroked the head of his precocious puppy as a realization dawned on him.  “Here I thought I was taking care of you, but you’re one step ahead of me, baby.  You knew how much I needed this.”    

       He felt the nod of Dean’s head.  The Righteous Man.  Matt had no doubts why an angel would want to claim Dean Winchester.

       “Can you stand up for me, sweetheart?”

       Dean nodded again, but he needed Matt’s help to unlock his sore knees and stand on two legs once more.  Matt wrapped his arms around his hunter and once again took in his scent.  The fragrance of summer still lingered, but Matt’s scent was stronger, soothing his earlier panic as Dean had suspected it would.  “We’re gonna do this together, baby.  No monster can beat us, I promise.”

       Giving up on a break in the rain, they ran out into the storm hand in hand.

       When they reached the Winchesters' motel room, Dean left Matt with the cops assigned stake out duty as he went to shower and pack.  There was no need to even pretend he would be staying anywhere but with Matt.  Not knowing Dean, the officers waited until he walked off and entered his room before informing the blind lawyer in the back seat that there had been another murder over the night.  The owner of the occult store who had told Turk about the Zoroastrian symbol Meg wore had been killed; the death similar to the other unsolved murders:  violent, in a sealed room, and, once the scattered pieces of the body were inventoried, a missing heart.  The police had located Meg’s apartment and the warehouse altar thanks to Sam, but the girl was still on the run.

       Matt thanked the officers for the update and sent them back to the station, dreading the task of telling Dean the news.  He heard the sounds of a fight the moment he exited the police car.  Cursing the charade he had to play, Matt tapped his way towards through the rain and across the parking lot at a reasonable pace until the unmarked police car pulled away, then he ran to the room Dean had entered, easily kicking open the cheap door.

       Matt was indifferent to the darkness of the motel room, his senses immediately directing him to Dean and a larger man who had his hunter by the collar as he punched him in the gut and ribs.  Before either of the two men could react to Matt’s entrance, he sprung over the bed, pulled Dean to safety and turned back to the larger man with a shout, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him.  Now it was Matt standing over the fallen man, his collar in Matt’s hand as the fist of the enraged vigilante plowed into the side of the man’s face, breaking his nose then nearly fracturing his jaw.

       “Matt!”  Dean’s voice still hoarse from Matt’s claiming finally broke through the rage and the protective instincts of the Daredevil.  “Stop!  It’s my Dad!”

       “I know.”  A final blow knocked John Winchester unconscious. 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

 

       “What do you mean, you know?” Dean demanded.  Righteous indignation from the Righteous Man was a fearsome combination, Matt decided when confronted by Dean’s fury.

       “I recognized his voice from the phone call last night,” Matt explained.  “Are you okay?”

       “Is he okay?”  Dean tried to move around Matt to get to his father and found his way blocked by Matt’s arm.  “Don’t,” he warned.  Matt heeded the warning, letting Dean pass and standing back to watch.  Or hover.  He couldn’t help it.  “Give me a hand here.  Let’s get him up on one of the beds.”

       Matt would rather have punched the man some more, or at least given him a solid kick in the ribs, but he followed Dean’s request.  He wasn’t happy about it.  Like both his sons, John Winchester had the basic smell of life on the road.  Like Dean, he smelled of whiskey, but the smell of whiskey on Dean was warm and sweet while on the unconscious man on the floor it was a sour scent that leached from his pores like sweat.  The rest of John’s scent was comprised of gun oil, gun powder and the acrid hint of gun smoke and below that was just the faintest hint of rot.  John likely wasn’t even aware of it himself, but Matt knew the smell of a man dying from the inside out.  Cancer or cirrhosis, he’d be willing to bet.

       Together Dean and Matt manhandled the dead weight of John Winchester onto the closest bed.  “Dude, I swear if you keep huffin’ and puffin’ like a bratty teenager, I’m gonna be the one spankin’ your ass.”

       “Oh, really?”  Behind his tinted glasses Matt quirked an eyebrow in warning.  Dean didn’t need to see the gesture to know he was on thin ice.  “He was hurting you.”

       “He was pissed.  I screwed…”

       “Don’t you dare take the blame for what he did.”

       “Damnit, Matt!  Family ain’t perfect.  They’re still family.  He’s still my Dad.” 

       “That doesn’t mean he didn’t get what he deserved.” 

       Dean was tensed to continue the argument, but there was a groan from the bed.  He turned his back to Matt and sat on the mattress beside his father’s stretched out body.  Matt held out his handkerchief, only slightly stiff from Dean’s earlier tears, to the hunter, and Dean took it to wipe at the blood on his father’s face.  “How are you?” Matt asked.

       Dean shrugged, his attention still on his father.  Matt put a tentative hand on Dean’s shoulder then tugged the handkerchief away.  “Why don’t you go shower, baby?  I’ll watch him for you.”

       Dean gave a snort to express his opinion on that suggestion.

       Matt raised a hand in what he hoped was the Boy Scout salute.  “I promise I won’t hit him again.  Scout’s honor.”

       This time Dean’s snort was one of suppressed laughter.  “That’s the Vulcan sign for _Live long and prosper_.”

       Matt cracked a smile as well.  “Eh,” he shrugged, “that works just as well.  As long as he doesn’t interfere with your ability to _Live long and prosper_ , I won’t hit him again.”

       “Shit.  You’ll be punching him again as soon as he opens his mouth.”  Dean shook his head.  There was still a smile on his face, but it was the same smile that had tugged on Josie’s heartstrings the night before.  Matt couldn’t see the expression, but the more he was around Dean, the more he was able to interpret the smallest changes in tone and inflection.  What he heard didn’t inspire confidence.  “My Dad’s a Grade A bastard, Murdock.  He ain’t a good person, but he’s helped a lot of people.  I’m not stupid and I’m not makin’ excuses for him.  He drinks too much.  He’s short-tempered.  He’s selfish and self-centered.  He’s chased away Sam and every ally and friend he ever had except Pastor Jim, who has that whole forgiveness thing he’s gotta live by.  And me.  Most of the time he treats me like shit.  I know that.  Hell, he knows that.  But it doesn’t change anything.” 

       “Then why put up with it, Dean?  I swear I’m trying to understand.  You’re a grown man.  You don’t need him.”

       “He needs me.”  In Dean’s mind that explained everything.

       There was surrender in Matt’s sigh.  “I won’t hit your Dad again unless he starts throwing punches at either one of us.  No guarantees I won’t gag him though.”

       “Good enough.”  Dean turned away to start for the shower, peeling off his sodden leather jacket in the process.  He stopped to shut the door to the room, propping it closed with a chair, and thankful for once that they stayed in places so run down and cheap that the busted doorframe wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow.  He snatched up his duffel bag and tossed it on the empty bed.  “You should change too.  You can’t be comfortable.  I’ve got an extra change of clothes you can have.”  After a quick glance at John to insure he was still out, Dean attempted another smile.  “I’d offer you a shower, but the shower gods haven’t smiled on the facilities in this shit hole, and we’d break our necks or our dicks if we tried to get in there together.”

       “Well, that would definitely put a damper on the plans for tonight.”  Matt gave Dean a nod.  “Go on.”

       As soon as the bathroom door shut behind Dean, Matt spoke to the still figure on the bed.  “You can stop faking now.”  He’d known from the sound of the man’s breathing and heartbeat that he’d regained consciousness at some point during Dean’s speech.  Registering the shift of John Winchester’s body, Matt pulled the gun from the back of his own pants.  “Looking for this?  I took it off you when we moved you to the bed.” 

       “So you’re a thief too?”

       “Too?  And what do you think I am otherwise?”

       “You’re fucking Dean.”  From John Winchester’s mouth it sounded ugly and shameful.

       “Not yet,” Matt couldn’t resist the taunt.

       “You’re wearin’ a suit.”  The way that came out made it clear that Dean’s father found Matt’s clothing nearly as disgusting as Matt’s relationship with his son.

       “I’m an attorney.”

       The elder Winchester sat up, waving off Matt’s help.  “Either Dean’s movin’ up in the world or you’re slummin’.  What’s a fancy nancy like you doin’ with a truck stop whore?”

       Matt’s hands were clenched into fists so tight that his short fingernails dug painful half-moon indentations into his palms.  “Actually, I’m helping him with this case since Sam’s been compromised and you couldn’t be bothered.”

       John swung his feet off the side of the bed.  “Well, I’m here now.  You can go.”

       “I’m not the one leaving.”

       That inspired a deep and unfriendly sounding chuckle from Dean’s father.  “Is that a threat?”

       Matt tossed his handkerchief at the man.  “Why don’t you wipe the blood off your face?”  He pulled Dean’s jacket closer.

       John grinned as he caught the ball of blood-stained cloth.  “You do pack quite a punch for a lawyer.”  He tested the hinge of his jaw, prodding it with curious fingers as he opened and closed his mouth a few times.

       “My Dad was a boxer.”

       “He’d be proud.”

       “I wonder.  He never wanted me to solve problems with my fists.  I think he might have been the naïve one.  Life’s taught me that some people only understand violence.”

       “You’re referring to me?”

       “That remains to be seen,” Matt responded easily, but he stood over John Winchester.  Close enough to keep the other man seated.  “Why are you here?”

       “I came to help my boys.”

       “Nice try, but we both know that’s a lie.”  He held out the flask of holy water and the shaker of salt he’d taken out of Dean’s jacket.  “You know what to do.”

       “Son, you’re playin’ a dangerous game,” the elder Winchester growled.  “What would you do if I refused to play along?”  Matt slipped the small plastic bottle of holy water (courtesy of Father Lantom) out of his sleeve, popped the cap and squirted John in the face.

       When John responded by cursing instead of screaming, Matt recapped the bottle.  “So just an asshole and not a demon then.”

       “You think this is a joke?  I’ve seen things that’d melt the eyes clean out of your head.”

       Matt’s smiled coldly as he flipped up the sunglasses to show John Winchester the unsettling milky blue orbs underneath.  “Been there, got my souvenir.”

       “You’re blind?”

       “Let’s just say you don’t want to give me the keys to your car.”

       “How did you…”

       Matt cut him off.  “Why are you here?” he repeated.

       “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

       “Then tell me, Dad.”  Dean opened the bathroom door, standing there with a thin motel towel wrapped around his waist.  Matt realized he’d never heard the water start.  Dean had been listening to their conversation through the door.  There were already bruises around his ribs from his Dad’s punches.  Matt may not have been able to see them, but John could and he didn’t like the feeling that started churning in his gut.  He’d rarely ever stuck around to see the aftermath of his actions, and he’d learned early on in his stint as a single father to hit Dean anywhere but the face if he wanted to keep others ignorant as well.

       “I’ve got a lead on the Colt.”

       “The Colt?”  Dean’s eyes grew wide.  “I thought that was just a bedtime story hunters told each other.”  He glanced over at Matt who was listening quietly in spite of the questions Dean knew had to be running through his head.  “The Colt is this legendary revolver supposedly made by Samuel Colt himself that has the power to kill anything.  Even a demon.”  Dean crossed his arms over his chest.  “It’s not real.” 

       “It’s real.  And I know where it is.”

       “Where?” Dean challenged him.

       “Hunter by the name of Daniel Elkins.”

       Dean blinked.  “I know him.  Good guy.  Quiet.  Used to be a vampire hunter until he helped wipe them all out.  Caleb sent me out to help him with a couple wendigo a few years ago.  He was pretty old then.  I thought he’d retired.”

       John nodded.  “He has.  He liked you.  You can convince him to give me the gun.”

       “I don’t know about that.  _IF_ he’s got the Colt, and that’s a big _IF_ , he doesn’t go around talking about it.  That’s gotta mean something.  I doubt he’s just gonna give it to me.  Besides, you know him too.  He told me stories about y’all hunting together.”

       “We...we had a falling out,” John admitted then shook his head.  “Now I find out that he has the damn Colt?  Son of a bitch has been holding out on me for years,” John growled.  “He knows I need that gun to avenge your mother.” 

       Dean shrugged.  “I’ll call him, but I ain’t promisin’ nothin’.”

       “No, you’ve gotta come with me.  The two of us…  If he won’t give it to us, we can take it.”

       Matt started to open his mouth, but Dean beat him to it.  “Do you hear yourself?  You’re talkin’ about robbin’ an old man!  Another hunter!  Jesus, Dad, you’re lettin’ the whiskey do the talkin’.”

       “The Colt, Dean!  That old man owes me, and so do you, boy.”

       “Me?  You’re my Dad, and I love you, but…”

       “I’m the one who gave Joshua that information about the faith healer that he passed on to Sam.  You were stupid enough to get yourself electrocuted.  You’d be dead right now if it wasn’t for me.”

       Dean’s fury sucked the oxygen from the room or maybe Matt had just stopped breathing.  “Did you know?”  Dean’s voice was a whisper, but it filled the small space.

       “Know what?” John snapped, too drunk to be anything but oblivious to Dean’s emotions.

       “The preacher’s wife had a reaper on a leash.  He chose who to save and she chose who died in their place.  He healed me and a man by the name of Marshall Hall died.”  Dean leveled a glare at his father that caused John Winchester to take a step back.  It was a look he’d seen on Sam’s face the last time he’d seen the boy.  Ellen Harvelle.  Bobby Singer.  Daniel Elkins.  Countless others had given him that look that spelled the end of another good thing John had screwed up.  He never expected to see it on Dean.  “Did you know you were sentencing a man to death so I could live?”

       John sat back on the edge of the bed all the color drained from his face leaving behind a jaundiced pallor.  “No.  Dean, I…I didn’t know.  A few hunters had heard of him and checked out the show, found a way to run the usual tests on the preacher and people they saw him cure.  They didn’t find anything suspicious.  Are you sure?”

       Dean picked up the glass his father had been drinking from and raised his arm to heave it at the cowering man on the bed.  Matt was at his side instantly.  “You don’t want to do that, baby.”  John wisely kept his mouth shut.

       Dean blinked as if he was coming out of a trance and didn’t know Matt, but he lowered his throwing arm and let his head be pushed into the crook of Matt’s neck, breathing in the now familiar scent that was a combination of the lawyer’s many bottles of shower potions and something that came from Matt himself.

       “I didn’t know, Dean.  You didn’t know.”  John was still attempting to rationalize.  “If the preacher hadn’t picked you, he would have chosen someone else and that man still would have died.  Can’t you just be happy that you’re alive?”

       Dean inhaled the comfort of Matt once more before raising his head, letting go, and facing his father.  “You said it yourself, I’m a stupid truck stop whore.  I didn’t deserve to be saved.”  Matt had to fight the urge to take Dean back into his arms.  “Hell, if I’d known what was goin’ on sooner, I’d’ve offered to let the reaper take me, saved somebody else.” 

       “Don’t say that, son.  Not now.  We’re so close.  If we can just get the Colt…”

       “The Colt’s not gonna bring Mom back!  It’s not gonna turn back the clock, and I’m not gonna lie to an ally, steal from a friend or take an innocent life to get it.  Not for Mom or you or anyone.  My life ain’t even mine anymore, it belonged to Marshall Hall, and he deserves for me to live it the best I can.  The way you taught me!”

       John looked at Dean through eyes yellowed with sickness and jaded with hardship and saw him for the first time as a man.  “I didn’t teach you much, Dean.”  He meant it as a complement, but saw the hurt in his son’s eyes.  “I’m going.”

       “We could use your help here,” Dean pleaded.  “There are people dying.  People we can save.  This demon knows too much, she could tell us where to find the one who killed Mom.  Bobby’s given us…”  John held up his hand for silence and Dean let the words die off. 

       “This isn’t my fight, son.  This is your case.”  He made a point to look over at Matt.  “I think I’d get in the way.”

       “I’m gonna call Elkins and tell him you’re after the Colt.”

       John almost smiled.  “I wouldn’t expect anything less after the speech you just gave.”  He shouldered his own duffel.  “I think I’m headed to see Pastor Jim for now.”

       Matt knew that was a lie, but he held his tongue.

       “I’ll call you when I finish up here, if you still want my help.  I’ll go talk to Elkins.”

       John nodded, but he wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes, focused instead on the angry bruises he had put on Dean’s body.  He put a hand on his son’s shoulder meant to be affectionate, but at the same time it prevented Dean from coming any closer than arm’s length.  There was no hug.  John had forgotten how to hug a long time ago.  Though Dean never stopped hoping.

       As John moved closer to Dean, Matt did too.  The gesture wasn’t lost on the elder Winchester, nor had he missed the bruises on Dean’s neck.  John’s hand on his son, was mirrored by a possessive arm around Dean’s lower back that remained even after John stepped back.  “Go get in the shower, baby.  I’m going to walk your father out.”  Matt’s sightless gaze never left John even as he gave Dean a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the rump to get him moving.

       Dean blushed as the display left little doubt about the dynamics of their brief relationship, still he moved to the door of the bathroom before turning around, “Matt…”

       “No hitting unless he swings first, I know.”

       “No broken bones or concussions,” Dean added.

       “Killjoy,” Matt teased.

       “And give him back his gun.  Unloaded.” 

       Matt expertly ejected the clip and tossed it to Dean before handing the empty weapon back to John.  “Anything else, puppy?”  Dean could hear the underlying threat that there better not be, or else…  That tone in Matt’s voice flipped some kind of switch that made Little Dean perk up and want to play. 

       “I’m good!”  Matt grinned as the bathroom door was hastily shut.

       John opened his mouth, and Matt immediately signaled for him to shut it.

       John did, surprising himself.  Who the hell was this man?

       “Little ears,” Matt murmured in explanation.  Once again, Dean had yet to turn on the shower and was likely trying to listen in on their conversation.  Matt unblocked the door and held out a hand inviting John to go out first into the rain.  Matt followed, pulling the door closed and holding it, smiling when he heard the shower start.

       “Is this where you threaten to break my arms if I ever lay a hand on Dean again,” John groused.

       “No,” Matt turned to square off with John Winchester, keeping one hand on the doorknob of the motel room.  “I promised Dean no broken bones, but I can still keep that promise and inflict quite a bit of pain.  Though for Dean’s sake I really hope you decide not to test me.”

       “You actually think you’re going to be around that long?”

       “That’s up to Dean.”

       “A blind hunter,” John sneered.  “You don’t stand a chance.”

       Matt’s grin was menacing enough to put John Winchester on guard.  “I know a few tricks, or have you already forgotten?”

       “I wasn’t prepared.”

       “So do all the monsters wait for you to get prepared before they attack?”

       “Jesus, you’re as mouthy as Dean,” John growled.

       “I’ll take that as a compliment.”  Matt moved back slightly.  “Do you have a ride?”

       “My truck,” John acknowledged gruffly.  “Parked a block away.”  He shifted the bag on his shoulder.  “Is this my dismissal?”

       “I don’t care what you do.  I want you to go, but I think you’re a fool for going.”

       “Spare me the lecture about what an amazing person Dean is,” the older man snapped.  “I know,” he added more softly.

       “You ought to think about telling him while you still have the chance.  Sam too.”

       John laughed roughly.  “You act like I’m a dying man.”  His heartbeat was telling.

       “You know you are.”  Matt softened his tone.  “How long?”

       “I don’t need a doctor to tell me my days are numbered.  And I don’t need your goddamned pity!  I’ve got a score to settle and I ain’t dyin’ until then.”

       Matt merely nodded with pity and an equal amount of disgust.  He’d been on that path once, the road to a death bloody and alone.  John Winchester was the man he could have become.  Thank God for friends.  “I’ve got someone to get back to,” he tilted his head towards the door, towards the room where Dean was waiting.  

       “Do I get to know the name of the man making a bitch of my son?” John’s armor was too thick to reveal the way he flinched at his own words.

       “You can just call me the Devil, and I’ll send you to hell if you ever hurt Dean again.”  Matt shut the door in John’s face.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I rewrote this chapter at least six times and I still can't say I'm satisfied with it. I blame Dean and Matt who both chose this chapter in which to get cold feet and freak out.

Chapter 15

 

       Dean emerged from a quick shower wrapped in a towel.  His eyes didn’t immediately scan the room for his superhero.  He didn’t feel a spike through his chest of some painful emotion he refused to name when he didn’t detect Matt’s presence.  He didn’t stop breathing as he fought against the prickles behind his eyes and nose, realizing he’d been ditched again.  He didn’t dread Sammy’s _I told you so_.  His soul didn’t bleed and scream inside his head, bludgeoned by his father’s cruel names and insults like weapons.  He didn’t hide his relieved whimper behind a faked cough when Matt entered the room with two sodas from the vending machine three doors down.  He didn’t hate himself for his foolishness and he didn’t hate Matt just a little for making him want and hope and trust, for making him weak.  He didn’t.  He didn’t.  He…did.      

       Entering the motel room, Matt had been greeted by the scent of Dean freshly showered:  salt, soap…and the reek of eau de summer angel.  Damnit.  He approached the hunter, displaying the selections.  “Downside of blindness that can’t be fixed with super senses:  I have no idea what either of these are.”

       “I’m fine.”  Dean brushed past Matt who quickly sensed a problem and sat the drinks down to follow the younger man to where he was rummaging through his duffel.  He’d no sooner placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder and opened his mouth to express his concern when the hunter spun around, smacking his hand away with more force than necessary.  “I don’t need you to feel fucking sorry for me.  I ain’t a little kid anymore.  I kill monsters.  I’m the nightmare that nightmares see in the shadows.  I’m fine!”

       “Sure you are,” the older man muttered under his breath.

       “I am!  Why are you so pissy?  Blow job already worn off?” Dean jeered.

       “There’s been another murder.”

       Dean took the news like another punch to the gut.  In his way, Matt could see the air around Dean practically shimmer with the emotions the younger man was trying to contain and control.  His feelings were so strong they affected his heart beat and breathing, the tension in his throat, the rigidity of his posture, even his body temperature and scent.  Matt hesitantly took a step closer only to have that aura surrounding Dean intensify until it almost crackled with electricity and he snapped, “Don’t touch me!”  His outburst was punctuated by John’s empty whiskey bottle slamming into the wall behind Matt, leaving a dent in the drywall, but refusing to break.  Dean’s storm cloud aura became even more volatile.  “You motherfucking fucked-up loser!”  Matt felt a swell of anger in his own chest.  “Don’t even have the muscle to break a fucking bottle!”  Realizing Dean’s words were directed at himself did little to soothe Matt.  With what was practically a battle cry, Dean hurled everything else within arm’s reach at the same wall, objects flying so close, Matt could feel the breeze ruffle his hair as they passed.  A glass went soaring by Matt’s ear.  “Leave already!”  He remained still until there was nothing left for Dean to throw and the hunter stood facing him, chest heaving with rage that hadn’t yet burnt itself out.

       Matt’s own mulligan stew of emotions, had already spiked into a mountain of angst, worry, fear and confusion that he couldn’t put into words and didn’t know how to deal with, but now it was topped off like a cherry on a sundae by the simple concern for Dean’s bare feet among the shards of glass.  It was almost a relief.  _That_ he could handle.  “Don’t you move a goddamn muscle.”

       “Don’t tell me what to do!  I’m not a fucking kid!”

       “Then stop acting like one!”  Dean cringed when he finally pushed Matt to match him in a shout.

       “Why the fuck are you still here?”

       Though he backed off the volume once again, Matt’s voice was cold steel that made Dean shiver.  “We’ve already had this discussion, Dean.  I’m not inclined to repeat myself.”

       Dean.  Not puppy.  Not baby or sweetheart.  Knowing he’d pissed off his superhero, Dean’s anger deflated faster than a cock in a cold shower.  But he’d be damned if he’d show it.  “Whatever.”  Dean stalked back towards the bed and his bag, yelping when he felt the stab of pain in his foot.  With a growl, Matt scooped up his brat and tossed him over his shoulder, laying down several hard swats to Dean’s ass.  Dangling upside down over Matt’s shoulder was humiliating and uncomfortable enough, but Dean knew from the first few slaps that Matt wasn’t playing.  “MurdOWck!  Let me goh!  Donngh you da-ow!”   Matt carried the hunter to the bed farthest from the danger zone and dropped him onto the hard mattress.  Dean could feel the throb of his pulse in his burning bottom. 

       Matt glared down upon the still defiant hunter, fighting the urge to strip off Dean’s towel and turn up the temperature on that pert ass of his.  He’d been making threats to punish Dean ever since they’d met, and he’d even spanked him twice and pretended it was punishment and not foreplay.  Instinctively though, he knew the younger man needed something more than cuddles and sympathy following the scene with his father and the news of the new death.  But Matt didn’t know if he could go there yet.  Did he really know what Dean needed?  Two intense evenings in a sex club with his college girlfriend may have opened Matt’s mind, but he knew it didn’t make him an expert.  Matt didn’t feel qualified to give out that kind of beating, especially not to Dean who’d likely have to be beaten bloody before he let himself go. 

       And Dean would be leaving soon… 

       That thought pestered Matt like a mosquito, always in the back of his mind and buzzing in his ear.  Matt had known this wasn’t going to be a relationship.  He’d walked into it with open eyes and practically dragged Dean along.  But sex was one thing, and what he was feeling right now wasn’t sexy or playful.  Dean needed more.  Matt wanted to be more.  But _more_ was a luxury neither of them could afford. As much as it felt right to give in, Matt chose to go with his head rather than his heart. 

       Seating himself on the edge of the bed, Matt took Dean’s ankle in a firm grip.  “I can take care of myself,” Dean complained.  “I don’t need you.”  He didn’t.  He didn’t need anybody.  Matt continued to ignore him, examining Dean’s feet in a detached and no nonsense manner. 

       Matt tightened his grip, barking out a simple command:  “Stay still.”  It was an order Dean found impossible to obey, not just because he was determined to disobey to prove his point, but because the gentle touch of Matt’s fingers over the sole of his foot tickled.  “Dean…”

       “You’re tickling on purpose,” the hunter accused him.  The lawyer didn’t take up the playful banter that had moved them past their argument the night before.  “Ow!”  Matt jerking the shard of glass from his foot was neither gentle nor ticklish.

       “First aid kit?”  To Dean, Matt’s purely clinical touch and his choice to use the minimal amount of words to address him was further proof that he was being abandoned and rejected once again.  Without the magic touches of his superhero, the voices in his head were loud with their mockery and insults.

       “I’ll get it.  You don’t have…”

       “Do _not_ get off this bed.”

       Dean was divided between defiance and submission.  Matt was taking care of him, but there was no affection in it.  Part of Dean desperately wanted to beg forgiveness, to curl up and cry, to go above and beyond to win back Matt’s kindness.  The other part wanted to be the tough hunter, the hardened professional who didn’t need anything from anybody.  So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours to shred Dean’s already paper thin sense of control and self-image and leave him raw that it was hardly surprising he chose to slip back into his familiar armor.  Nevertheless, he stayed on the bed and directed Matt to the brothers’ medical supplies.  Even Dean the Hunter wasn’t brave enough to disobey the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen a second time in just a handful of minutes.

       Matt promptly returned with the first aid kit.  Like a surgeon, he snapped out what he wanted and Dean placed the item into his extended hand.

       “Tell me more about the murder?  Another daeva attack?  Does it match the other killings?” Dean asked when it became obvious Matt didn’t intend to say more. 

       “The officers who were staking out your motel room told me about it when we first got here.”

       “Was the victim from Lawrence?”

       “No.  Actually, I don’t know, but I doubt it.  The lady Turk met yesterday at the occult shop.  The one who described Meg and the symbol on her locket.  Turk found her this morning when he went to ask her more questions.  Same M.O. as the Lawrence victims though.” 

       Once he finished with the disinfectant and a large bandaid, Matt retrieved Dean’s duffel and brought it over.  “Be careful reaching inside.  There may be glass still.” 

       Dean nodded at the warning.  “The connection was never Lawrence.  It was us:  me, Sammy and Dad.  Lawrence was the way to get us here.  Now that we’ve met people, it’s gonna get personal.  Everyone we talked to.  Everyone who helped us.  You’re all in danger now.”  He grimaced, leaving unsaid that it was all his fault.  It was good Matt was done with him.  Dean was all business now, his tone just as impersonal as Matt’s had become.  “I want everyone at Josie’s before sun down.  We’ll stop at the hardware store on our way like we originally planned and get paint for the doors and window sills, spray paint to make the devil’s trap, salt, paintbrushes and the like, and any iron tools they have – but it’s gotta be iron.  Fireplace sets are usually good.”  Dean slid his oldest AC/DC t-shirt over his head, there were holes under the arms and the neck was stretched out, but it was going to be splattered with paint before the day was over.

       “Here.  You need something dry.”  He shoved clothes in Matt’s direction, a stack that graciously included Dean’s last pair of clean underwear.  Matt was already stripping off his wet shirt.  Yeah, so Dean may have stopped what he was doing to watch.  Sue him.  Oh, that’s right, you can’t sue a dead man.  Dean was just a ghost.  A ghost still trying to interact with the living.   

       Still worried about Dean’s bare feet, Matt brought the brooding hunter his boots before taking off his own shoes.  With one last look of longing at Matt Murdock’s body, Dean went into the bathroom to gather up the rest of his and Sam’s belongings.

       Some people just weren’t born to wear flannel.  Matt Murdock was one of the afflicted.  Dean couldn’t help himself; he began to cackle when he saw Matt fully dressed in the extra clothes from the duffel bag accessorized with a pissy bitchface that would put Sam to shame.  Dean tried to stop, he really did…but then he let out a snort which only made him laugh harder.  The laughter was a welcome release from the tension of the morning even if it made his bruised ribs ache.  To Matt, it was a sunbeam on his face after a long gray winter. 

       The guffaws tapered down to giggles and seemed on the verge of ending in a smile when Dean wiped the tears from his eyes and caught sight of Matt’s polished wingtips peeking out from the frayed cuffs of the jeans.  The snorts erupted all over again until Matt seized him by the shoulders and kissed him hard, taking advantage of Dean’s gasp of surprise to overtake the hunter’s mouth and twist their tongues together.  The kiss was long enough to leave them both a little breathless and leave Dean a little…well…  “I must not look that bad,” the right corner of the vigilante’s mouth quirked upwards, displaying a deep dimple, as he tilted his head to appreciate the sudden heat that was rising from Dean’s lower body.

       Dean blinked, speechless and confused.  “You kissed me?”

       “I’ve kissed you lots, baby.”  Now Matt was confused too.  Had Dean really wanted him to leave?

       “But…  I thought…”  He swallowed uncomfortably, still not wanting to put his fear into words.  “I thought you wanted out.”  He studied the wingtipped shoes, not finding them funny anymore.

       “I think you were the one telling me to leave.”  Dean frowned, his forehead scrunching into wrinkles as he tried to remember the details of the argument.  “Do you still want me to go?”  Dean treated the blind man to an expression that was part scowl and part pout and meant to serve as an answer.  “Use your words, baby,” Matt chided, as he reached for Dean’s chin, feeling the protruding lower lip with the thumb he brushed over the hunter’s mouth.

       “You should go.”

       “Not what I asked.”

       “No,” Dean admitted, knowing Matt would catch him if he lied.  “I don’t want you to go.”

       “And I’ve already told you I’m not leaving whether you want me to or not.  Not until we’ve…what’s the word you use for killing a monster?”

       “Ganked.”

       “Not until we’ve ganked a bitch demon and her pet daeva and figured out why you smell like blackberry cobbler on the Fourth of July.”  At the reminder of food Dean’s stomach asserted itself with a growl worthy of a werewolf.

       “And then what?”  Dean clamped his mouth closed with a click of teeth, but the words were already out there.  He wanted answers more than he wanted pie.

       “And then, if we’re still kissing like this…”  Another kiss.  This time Dean fought Matt for dominance, each trying to push into the other’s mouth.  Dean should have known something was up when Matt suddenly let him in.  The kiss was sweet and gentle as Matt’s tongue welcomed his with a soft touch.  Dean shifted closer as the kiss lingered.  When they broke apart, the kiss was still gentle, but it was Matt fisting Dean’s short hair and the hunter’s head pulled back so far he could have opened his eyes and studied the rust colored water stains on the ceiling; his hands were gripping the borrowed flannel shirt; and Matt’s tongue was leisurely stroking the inside of his hunter’s mouth.  He stole the breath from Dean’s lungs with one more quick kiss, which left Matt holding Dean like a Hollywood damsel as he felt the faintest breath of air from the fluttering of Dean’s long lashes in that moment of pleasured panic.  Dean quickly reasserted himself, punching Matt in the chest and wiping the kiss off his lips as he took a step back.  The older man bit his lip, but it did little to hide his satisfied smirk and the tell-tale wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.  “When this hunt of yours is over, if we’re still kissing like that and making each other laugh, then we need to have a talk.”

       Once more, Dean felt something inside his chest.  This time it felt as if a breeze was stirring as the door to some long abandoned place in his heart was unlocked.  For some reason, that scared Dean more than the blasted demon. 

       In between bouts of rain, they walked to the lot where Dean had parked Baby.  Dean hoped Matt couldn’t hear the sound he made as he slid into the driver’s seat, his sore bottom making contact with cool leather and Little Dean waking up with a twitch and suddenly half hard.  This was even better than his fantasy.  He was driving with Matt instead of away from him.  _Which you have to do soon_ , he reminded himself, talk or no talk.  His surly attitude resurfaced and he jammed Metallica’s _Master of Puppets_ cassette into the tape deck to reflect his mood, and turned the volume up as he advanced the tape to the title track.  As if the music and Dean’s tense silence weren’t clues, Matt could tell Dean’s state of mind had dropped into the red zone again by the way the hunter worried at his lower lip and twisted his hands back and forth around the steering wheel with a squeak that, to Matt, was like nails dragging down a chalkboard.    

      Dean peeled out of the parking space, slamming on the brakes before he hit the street.  Without thinking, he reached out to slow Matt’s forward momentum before the Daredevil ended up kissing Baby’s dashboard, but he quickly removed his hand.  “How do I get to the damn hardware store?” he shouted over the music.  Matt reached for the controls to lower the volume before answering, only to have Dean smack his hand away:  “Hands off, Murdock.  Number one rule of riding in Baby:  Driver picks the music and the shotgun shuts his cakehole.”  Matt was beginning to seriously regret his decision to avoid punishment spankings.

       Following Matt’s directions, Dean stopped the car and quickly hopped out with the engine still running and the music raging through the speakers, claiming Matt needed to remain behind so Dean could move through the store faster.  The hunter ignored the flash of hurt on his lover’s face that quickly changed to anger as Dean ignored the reminder that he, a target for angels and demons and psychotic mercenaries alike, was putting himself at risk venturing forth alone.  Wishing he had his hairbrush, Matt contemplated whether there was enough room across the Impala’s bench seat to drag Dean over his lap when the hunter returned.     

       The 1967 Impala wasn’t the first car Matt had experienced (always from the passenger’s seat, of course).  He’d been in limousines and pieces of shit that were held together with duct tape and chewing gum.  He’d even helped that same ex-girlfriend from college steal a car once, one of those high-end sports cars that a kid from Hell’s Kitchen thought existed only in James Bond movies.  As a New Yorker and a blind man, Matt’s dream car was a taxi (with an honest driver) that didn’t smell too bad (a stipulation that applied to both the car and the driver).  A car was a lifeless, soulless, heartless hunk of metal.  Or so he thought.  Then he met Dean’s Baby and immediately wished he’d never found that Braille copy of _Christine_ in the library.  Baby smelled like a Winchester.  She growled like a mama bear.  The vibration of her engine sent a shudder straight up his spine.  Matt swore the car was sentient…and she didn’t like him. 

       Determined to shut off the ear-splitting noise of Dean’s radio, Matt pushed every blasted button, twisted every knob, and flicked every switch on the freaking console with no effect.  …Well, there was an effect:  the headlights were flashing as were the turn signals; the wipers were swinging wildly to and fro across the windshield at the highest setting; both the hood and the trunk gaped open; blistering air gushed forth from the heater (Matt could only pray that the tiny whatsits rattling annoyingly in the dashboard vent would melt into silent goo before he went insane); and the Metallica cassette that Dean had left blaring at top volume rattled the windows with another replay of _Master of Puppets_.  He _might_ have punched the dashboard a little harder than he should have, doing little more than bruising his ego…and his spanking hand. 

       Glaring at the controls, the Daredevil, the Man Without Fear, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, the ivy league graduate and juris doctor was determined not to be bested.  He pushed in multiple buttons at once using both hands and a knee to accomplish the task.  _Finally_ there was an end to the music…and an end to Dean’s cassette.  With a whine the Impala spit out the case but kept a mouthful of ribbon firmly tangled in her maw.  “Baby, you bitch!  You did that on purpose,” he accused the car, as he massaged his aching fist.

       He wasn’t expecting a response.

       “This car is…unusual, but I assure you the malfunction was due to your own conduct,” the heady scent and the deep gravel of the honey angel’s voice grated across Matt’s frayed nerves.  However, when he attempted to lunge at the creature and stab it with his shortened cane, he found the angel had disappeared.  “This is unproductive.”  The voice now came from the backseat.  “I have warded the vehicle so we cannot be overheard, but we do not have much time to talk.” 

       “Then answer my questions and take off the invisible gag you slapped on me, you kinky bastard.”  Damn, he was starting to sound like Dean.  “What are you?  Who are you?  Why are you here?  What happened in the church?  Why does Dean smell like a summer daydream?  Does this have anything to do with the killings here?  Why can’t I tell anyone about you?”

       “My name is Castiel.  I am an Angel of the Lord.  My garrison is assigned to protect the Righteous Man.”

       “Since when?”

       “Since he was born.”

       Matt blinked behind his tinted glasses.  “Then where the hell have you guys been all his life?”

       Castiel didn’t understand the sudden hatred coming from the damaged human he had chosen as an ally.  He probed the blind man’s thoughts unprepared for the onslaught of sensation:  the noise, the constant rub of sensitive nerve endings in his skin, the hypervigilance of a man always prepared for an attack, the sight of the world on fire.  Castiel knew of hell and some of its tortures; it was little different from Matt Murdock’s perception of the world around him.  The angel dug deeper into the man’s consciousness.  Castiel had never before experienced the chaos of a human mind, everything was jumbled together and interconnected, loud and vibrant and constantly moving…he would find a thought about Dean, but it was attached to a feeling and a worry and a fear, a memory from Matt’s own past, a hope, a to-do list, a thought of another friend, then more feelings and…AAUUGGHH!  Castiel couldn’t tell if the experience was pain or pleasure.  It was too intense.  Emotions were troubling, disorganized, messy, violent and…beautiful, glorious, awe-inspiring.  Castiel was devoted to God and his superiors, he followed orders to the letter, he valued discipline and serenity.  These human creatures had to find their own way with all these…ponderings and feelings which filled their heads, pushing and pulling one way and then the other.  He didn’t know whether to smite them all to put them out of this misery or to fall to his knees in homage.

       When the angel had his answers he gratefully withdrew back to his own uncluttered mind, to the gentle voices of his brothers and sisters, to his orders…which after experiencing the human’s perspective now caused an unpleasant feeling in the digestive track of his vessel.  Castiel reached out with his grace, but could find nothing to cure.  He would try to find Balthazar after this mission and ask the other angel what could cause a vessel to feel an odd discomfort when there was no physical reason for such pain to exist.  Possibly the same thing had happened to Anna.  She had been Castiel’s superior.  Command of the garrison and the duty of protecting The Righteous Man had been hers for the first several years of Dean Winchester’s life, but then she began to question the orders.  Castiel had been a friend, but if she had confided in anyone, he didn’t know of it.  Instead, Anna had chosen to fall, ripping out her grace and hurtling through time and space on her way to earth.  She could be anywhere, any time, though she was not an archangel so it was likely she had arrived on earth close in time to when she had fallen.

       All this exploration and reminiscence had taken place in a fraction of a second.  Matt didn’t know what had happened, but something sent the angel reeling away from him.  “The Righteous Man…”

       “His name is Dean.”

       “Dean,” Castiel amended.  “The plan…  My orders are to keep The…Dean…to keep Dean alive until it is time for the prophecy to be fulfilled.  My troops have done so.  It has not been easy.  He puts himself at great risk and several times he has even tried to harm himself.”  The angel seemed to find the concept of Dean committing suicide a bizarre curiosity and a nuisance. 

       Matt wanted to find his hunter NOW.  He wanted to hold Dean and heal a lifetime of pain.  He wanted to know more about this prophecy.  He also wanted to hurt the emotionless monster in the car with him.  An army of angels had watched over Dean since his birth, watched as demons killed his mother, watched as he was beaten by his father, watched as he prostituted himself to feed his brother.  Watched and did nothing to stop it.  That was heaven?  Matt wanted to be sick.  “God told you to do this?”

       “My orders come from Zachariah.”

       “Who the fuck is that?”

       “He is…” Castiel searched for the human word, “…a beaurocrat.”

       Matt, the good Catholic boy, had to laugh to keep from sobbing.  “Why Dean?  What prophecy?  Why do you call him The Righteous Man?”

       “He is Michael’s Sword.”  Castiel found the human most confusing.  He could feel the man’s anger, but the man was laughing.  It was not a joyful sound.

       “Michael the Archangel?”

       “Yes.”

       “That’s who was in the church?  Who broke the window at St. Patrick’s?”

       “Yes and no.”

       “What does that mean?”

       Castiel hesitated and seemed almost fearful.  “The most powerful beings.  God himself, of course, but the archangels too…  To protect and to serve God’s creation, they have the power to be in several places at once.  My brothers are forbidden from using this power anymore.  It…had unintended consequences.”

       “Mithra?”

       “He is one example, yes.  At one time Mithra and Michael were the same being, shared the same memories, the same mission.  There was no difference between them.  But…that is no longer so.  And there are others.  Our Father allowed each of my eldest brothers to do this several times at the beginning of all things.  But over time my brothers and their other selves were no longer connected.  From the point of separation, each became their own being.  They were no longer the same.”  Castiel examined the human’s face to see if he was comprehending.  He wasn’t ready to venture back into Matt Murdock’s thoughts for confirmation.

       “The…copies, I guess you’d call them.  They became gods and goddesses here on earth?”

       “Yes.  Mithra is very much like Michael.  Even I cannot detect any difference in their scents except Michael’s is stronger.  But only barely so.  Mithra too once battled an evil that was one of Lucifer’s many forms.  His duties and concerns remain very much like my brother’s and he was likely drawn here because of the daeva.  I think he believes Dean can be used as his weapon too.  Michael will not be pleased.”

       “What about Dean?  What about free will, damnit!  Mithra and Michael are fighting over Dean like two kids in the sandbox who want the same toy!”

       “I don’t understand that reference.  The Right…Dean is not a plaything.  He is the human vessel of Michael.  Michael is too powerful to possess any human but his true vessel.  Even were he to make his own, it would not fit him as well.  Mithra likely has the same limitation.  To walk the Earth, Michael must have Dean.  Dean will be given a choice, but of course he will consent.  Why would he not?”

       Matt barked out a harsh laugh.  “If you think so, you bastards don’t know him at all.”  He was feeling murderous again.  “And that’s why you don’t give a damn about him, isn’t it?  You don’t care if he suffers.  You don’t care if he’s happy.  As long as you keep him alive.  He’s just a…” What was the phrase Dean used?  “A meat suit.”

       “Raphael says all heroes must suffer.  The greatest have even been purified in the fires of hell and brought back.  It is an honor…” The blue-eyed angel began to argue.

       “It’s bullshit!  You’ve been watching his whole life?  Do any of you know his favorite color?  His favorite food?  His favorite song?  Do you care what he wants to do with his life?”

       “Those things aren’t relevant to my mission.”           

       “Fuck you!’

       Castiel was familiar with that phrase.  And if the sharp scent of ozone didn’t remind Matt that he was in the presence of an Angel of the Lord, the booming voice and ripple of what must have been massive wings surely did.  “You should show me some respect.”

       Matt was quite certain it was insanity to blurt out:  “You should deserve some first.”  But that doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.  A full minute passed.  Every second felt like it would be his last, but the angel never moved.  Matt listened to the sounds of traffic and the even movement of air through his nose and into his lungs and back out again, bringing his emotions under control the way Stick had taught him.  “Why did you come to me?”

       “The prophecy is carefully guarded to prevent interference.  Even I only know the part which pertains to my mission.  There will come a time when Lucifer will be freed from his cage and walk the earth.  Michael shall claim his vessel and the brothers will lead their armies into battle once more.  The victor will rule all three realms and all the souls in them:  heaven, hell and the earth.”

       Matt’s vision began to blur.  He was glad he was seated because he didn’t think his legs would have supported him.  The Apocalypse.  They were talking about the Apocalypse.  _If_ Dean said yes.  He never would.  Knowing the guilt that weighed on Dean from every innocent life he couldn’t save, there was nothing in heaven or hell that could convince The Righteous Man to consent to the end of the world.  Matt’s faith in heaven may have been shaken, but he had faith in Dean.        

       Castiel proceeded.  “You will not be allowed to tell anyone of this.  Or about me.”  That was hardly surprising.  “All of hell knows of The Righteous Man and they will do anything to keep Michael from his vessel.  They are using Sam Winchester.  The demon blood makes him stronger.  It poisons his soul and makes him a threat to his brother.”

       Matt made a derisive little noise in the back of his throat.  “It makes him a real asshole too.  Yeah.  I’ve already figured that out.”  

       Castiel frowned.  “I reported all this to Zachariah, but I was told not to interfere.  The Righteous…Dean is in danger, but I’ve been forbidden from acting.”  There was the sound of the angel shifting in his seat and Matt recognized the sharp, jerky movements of a man who was looking for something to hit.  “I don’t understand!”  The growl of the angel, like a swarm of bees, struck fear into Matt on a primal level. 

       “I assume this is why you need my help?  Can’t you just get rid of the demon?”

       The angel shook his head, the admission causing him to grind his teeth.  “I cannot go against my orders, but my orders don’t bind you.  You can stay close to Dean and protect him.  You can convince him to keep Sam away.  Dean trusts you,” the angel simply said.

       “Maybe he’d trust you too if you took the time to know him.”  

       “We do not have time for that now…though…”

       Matt felt heat radiating from the creature.  Thankfully, it wasn’t the type of heat that set off warning bells foreshadowing some painful death.  It was…  “Are you blushing?”

       That made Castiel’s blush flame even more intensely.  The angel seemed entirely perplexed by this physical response, hands touching his face in awe.  Today was the first time he had taken a vessel, preferring to watch and direct his troops from the interdimensional realm, instructing his underlings on what steps to take in the physical world as such were needed.  But he was curious.  “Would I be required to copulate with him to win his trust?  I would not be opposed.  His interactions with you have proven most…intriguing.  Much of the garrison has taken to watching.” 

       The angel wondered if the human would challenge him for the right to mate with The Righteous Man.  That is what other earthly animals would do.  Castiel generally preferred to observe the animal world, it made so much more sense to him.  There would be a battle and the strongest would win.  Castiel would win.  And Dean would be his!  And if Michael or Mithra or Lucifer himself challenged him…  Castiel felt another odd combination of sensations from his vessel.  There was one somewhat lower than before, and it felt…  Oh, Father!  He sucked in a breath that he had no need for. 

       Matt was 99.99% sure that his head couldn’t actually explode, but that last 1/100th of a percentage point worried him.  There was a pounding in his head; a deep, dark rage rattling the bars of its cage and searching for a way out.  Every muscle in his body was locked in tension.  His face was so hot he thought it might melt.  “You’ve watched us have…  You’ve watched us together?”  He choked on the words. 

       “You did not seem opposed to an audience at the time,” the angel reminded him in a tone that truly embodied the concept of holier than thou.  

       “Because we didn’t know we really had one!”  Matt shouted at the self-righteous prick.

       “We must watch Dean to protect him.”

       “I’m not the goddamned enemy!”

       “He has too many enemies, himself included.  Why do you think an entire garrison watches over him?”

       “You don’t want to know what I think right now.”  Hot tears like molten lava from some place at the core of Matt’s being rose to the surface and escaped from his eyes, leaving burning tracks down his face.  “Leave him alone.”  Matt hadn’t been sure what he would say when he finally gained the control of his mouth.  He had thought threats, cursing, even renunciation of his faith.  He hadn’t expected this.  “Please.  For the…”  He hadn’t expected to beg.  “For the love of God!  Just…go away and leave him alone.”

       Castiel frowned.  “That would be unwise.”

       “I’ll do everything in my power to keep Dean safe.  That means safe from you as well.”  He may have been in tears, but Matt’s voice resonated with an authority that touched Castiel’s wings in their hidden dimension, folding them inward and making them tremble.  “You may be angels, but you don’t serve God.  Not the God I believe in…I _still_ believe in.  My God would look on heaven and weep.” 

       The angel hadn’t expected Matt’s reaction either.  He had no idea how to respond to this situation.  The human was crying and pleading, both signs of weakness.  Then why did the man’s pleas cause more uncomfortable sensations in Castiel’s human body?  Why did he feel unworthy when he was clearly so much more powerful than these mortals?  Why was he beginning to question his orders?

       Matt heard the sound of wings as the angel took flight.

       A moment later, a pissed off Dean tugged the door handle and pulled the door open.  “What the hell did you do to my Baby?”  Matt was angled towards the back seat with one leg under him and another foot firmly planted on the floorboard, ready to spring into attack.  He had collapsed his cane and was holding it as a weapon; his body tense with coiled energy, like a snake waiting to strike.  As Dean stared, he saw a muscle throb at the joint of Matt’s jaw and tears flow down his face.  “Hey, babe, you okay?”

       “Dean?”  Matt wanted nothing more in the world at that moment that to have Dean wrapped safe in his arms.  “C’mere, baby.”  He didn’t wait, surging forward to capture him and holding on tight.  He buried his nose in the crook of his hunter’s neck, and if he was enjoying the aroma of daisies, bay and sun warmed blackberries even as he tried to rub more of his own scent onto Dean’s neck, well, no one had to know.

       Dean loaded his purchases into the car under Matt’s watchful if sightless gaze.  It had only taken one factoid about honeybees for Dean to realize what had Matt so spooked.  He wasn’t too surprised when he slid into the driver’s seat to have Matt slide over to meet him, pressing their legs together hip to knee.  Matt’s hand rested possessively on his thigh and squeezed.

       Dean clicked switches and turned knobs, frowning as he extracted the guts of his angry mood music cassette from Baby’s tape deck.  “Do I even want to know?”  Matt was biting his lip, looking uncertain.  It wasn’t an expression Dean had seen often in their short time together.  “It’s okay, babe.  I was being a dick.  Baby’s a tough old girl and…”  He fished in the box of cassettes at Matt’s feet, “Ah-ha!  I knew I had an extra!”

       “You put that song on again, Dean Winchester, and I swear you won’t be able to sit for a week.”

       Dean grinned, “Promise?” 

       “Be careful what you wish for, puppy.  Some spankings aren’t meant to be fun.”

       Dean couldn’t resist playing with fire.  He leaned over, catching Matt’s earlobe with his teeth.  “Am I your naughty brat?”

       The hunter swore Matt’s eyes narrowed behind the tinted lenses.  He felt the temperature inside the car go up and wondered if heat vision was another of Daredevil’s superpowers.  “Have you been misbehaving, puppy?”  He waited for several seconds.  “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.  I expect an answer.”

       Dean swallowed hard, the gulp clearly audible to Matt’s ears.  Dean was proud of himself for not shrinking away as Matt’s lips curled into a grin worthy of Lucifer himself.  A tightening of Matt’s fingers on his thigh made him realize his leg was bouncing and it took nearly all his effort to make it stop.  “Umm…”  He’d already forgotten the question.  “Shit.”  The hand moved to his inner thigh and inched its way up, pulling Dean’s legs apart slightly.  Little Dean was growing larger in anticipation and Matt’s smile grew wider as he settled his palm back over Dean’s thigh.  “Matt?”

       “Do you want something, baby?”

       Dean shifted, opening his legs wider to call attention to what he wanted.

       “Use your words, Dean.”

       “I want you.”

       “I’m all yours.”  Matt’s hand didn’t move.

       Dean growled in frustration, a puppy facing off against a wolf.  “Touch me, damnit!”

       The hand squeezed his thigh hard enough to leave bruises.  “I am.”

       “Touch me…there.”

       Having the normally brazen, ballsy hunter hot with embarrassment, arousal and frustration was amusing.  “Where, baby?”

       “Matt!”

       “Dean.”

       “My cock!  Touch my cock, damnit!”

       The sound of Matt clicking his tongue in disapproval made Dean hang his head and Matt noticed the heat and pulse of blood coming from Dean’s erection also began to flag.  “Manners, puppy.  You’ve got to ask nicely for what you want.”

       “Forget it,” Dean snapped.

       “Still not polite.”  Matt’s hand did move this time, caressing Dean through the denim until he was whining.  “You want my mouth, precious?”

       “Please,” Dean gasped out the magic word.

       “Say it all together, baby, and you can have it,” he coaxed.

       Dean whimpered, “Please, Matt… I want your mouth on me…on my cock.”

       “Good, Dean.  So good, sweetheart.  So, proud of you.”  As he spoke, Matt opened Dean’s belt, unbuttoned his jeans, and carefully slid the zipper down.  Dean wasn’t wearing underwear.  “Ah, baby…”  Little Dean stood proud, curving against the hunter’s stomach.  Matt lovingly stroked the silky flesh daring all the angels to watch and know that the Righteous Man would never be theirs.  “You’re going to drive to Josie’s while I take care of you, baby.  And you’re not gonna come until we get there.”

       Dean groaned, but nodded.  Baby rumbled to life, her engine purring.  Damn car sounded like she was the one being stroked and petted.  Matt continued to use his hand until Dean maneuvered them into the flow of traffic.  Then he slid closer to the window until he could lower his head. He nuzzled the hunter’s cock with his nose and cheek, taking in the scent of Dean’s arousal.  The drag of Matt’s perpetual stubble over such sensitive skin was already drawing porn-worthy noises from Dean’s pretty lips.  Cradling Dean’s balls in his hand, Matt began to lift, roll and lightly apply pressure.  Starting at the base of Dean’s cock, Matt stroked his tongue upward, over and over until all of the shaft was slick, only then did he kiss away the bead of precome perched on top of the slit.  Dean cursed, white knuckling the steering wheel as Matt’s fingers made a ring that circled the head of his dick and pushed down, stretching the slitted opening as the very tip of the lawyer’s talented tongue wriggled inside.  “You taste so good, baby.  Are you gonna give me more?”  As if on cue another dribble of precome appeared and Matt lapped it up, swirling his tongue over the smooth head before closing his lips over it, hollowing his cheeks and sucking as his tongue continued to flick at the slit and the vein on the underside.  Dean couldn’t help raising his hips slightly, encouraging Matt to take more, and, with a smile Dean could feel, Matt eagerly complied, pushing down until he felt the hunter’s cock bumping against the back of his throat.  Matt had never learned to swallow a cock.  He could count on one hand the number of times he’d had his mouth anywhere near another man’s dick.  What he lacked in experience he made up for in enthusiasm, his tongue in constant movement as he began to bob his head up and down, humming as Dean whined, the vibration bringing the hunter closer to the edge.  

       Dean was embarrassed by how quickly he had raced to the finish line.  He was clenching his ass and curling his toes in his boots to keep from coming too soon.  Thankfully it wasn’t a long drive.  His ability to move was limited, but he still pushed deeper into the wet heat of Matt’s mouth.  Dean’s thrusts were shallow and Matt allowed them though he let his teeth drag just slightly in warning.  “We’re here, babe.”  His head fell back onto the seat, his legs parted a few more inches and his hand came to rest and card through Matt’s dark hair.

       In response to Dean’s announcement, Matt moved faster and sucked harder, the bitter-salt taste of Dean’s precome was a constant now.  He could feel the hunter’s balls tightening.  “Come in my mouth, baby,” Matt gave the whispered command as he tugged gently on Dean’s testicles.  With a shout and a sharp thrust deep into his lover’s mouth, Dean obeyed.  Matt fought the urge to choke and spit, swallowing hard until he’d taken it all.  In the brief aftermath, he peppered the now soft cock with kisses.  “Was that good, baby?”

       “Yeah,” Dean sounded high.

       Matt took care of tucking Dean back into place and fastening his pants and belt up again.  Once he was seated, he pulled Dean into his lap, not commenting on the way Dean curled into the embrace of Matt’s arms, rubbing his face against the familiar flannel of Matt’s borrowed shirt.  Matt could tell his puppy gave a wide yawn before snuggling even closer.  “Why’d you do that?” Dean asked.  “I know I’ve been a pain in the ass.  I didn’t deserve that.”

       “You deserve good things, Dean.”  Dean reacted to that statement the same way he would to a lie.  “I’m sorry too, baby.”         

       “For what?”

       “I should have taken control before now.  You needed me back at the motel and I knew it, but I chickened out.”

       “You took care of my foot,” Dean protested, raising his head off Matt’s chest to stare at him, trying to read his expression.

       Matt pulled Dean, back to his chest.  “I should have whipped your butt hard and I shouldn't have given you the silent treatment.  You were overwhelmed and trying your best to hold it together.  But we were in a safe spot and I should have encouraged you to let go before the hail of shattered glass.”

       “By spanking me?”

       “By doing something.  But, yeah, in that situation, a spanking would have been good for you, sweetheart.  Not because you were bad.  Not because either one of us wanted sex.  You needed the release.”  Matt placed another kiss to the top of Dean’s head.  “Do you understand?”

       Dean nodded.  “I think so.  I exploded.  You think you could have cut the fuse and prevented all that if you’d put me over your knee right off the bat.”

       “Exactly.”

       “I don’t know that you’re right, but why didn’t you?”

       Matt shifted uneasily.  “I didn’t know if we were ready for that.”  He rubbed circles into the hunter’s back.

       “You are now?”

       “I had a wake-up call while you were in the store.  I don’t deserve you if I’m not gonna be there for you whatever you need.  I can’t pick and choose.”

       “I’m not opposed to more spankings, babe.”

       He was treated to the sight of Matt’s dimples and laugh lines.  “I’m glad.  I promise you there will be plenty more of those.”  He kissed Dean’s nose.  “But what if I send you to bed?  Or take away your pie?  Or your Metallica tape?  Or your car keys?  If I tell you Sam isn’t coming near you on this hunt until I’m satisfied the demon blood is out of his system?  What then?”

       Dean grumbled as if Matt was already handing down judgment.  “Don’t threaten a starving man, by taking away his pie.  Them there’s fightin’ words, Murdock,” Dean drawled in his best John Wayne impersonation.

       “Hmmm.  What if I tell you the best pie in Hell’s Kitchen is just half a block down?  The bacon cheeseburgers aren’t bad either…”

       Dean was already standing on the sidewalk dancing impatiently from foot to foot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about betas, but to prevent another delay like this one due to uncooperative characters foundering in negative headspace, I would be interested in a beta or more experienced writer to help advise, review and give suggestions when I get in a jam. As always, comments and kudos are soooooo welcome especially after a difficult chapter like this. Thanks for sticking with me! Coming up next: Pie, Painting, Sam, and Dean gets to harass Brett some more:)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some pie...

Chapter 16

 

       Matt could admit he was being a _teensy_ bit overprotective.  He’d escorted Dean down the street, taking the outside position himself.  Hand not resting on Dean’s arm, but keeping a firm grasp on the rain slicked leather of his jacket, and ready to pull the younger man to safety if attacked.  Rain was falling hard once again.  Fat drops that stung when they hit exposed skin.  Though the rain actually enhanced Matt’s odd sense of vision, his cane swept back and forth unnecessarily, but Matt wanted it ready to be used as a weapon.  He kept the hunter close to the storefronts so no one could get on his other side, and he’d insisted that Dean keep a hand in his own pocket clutching the bottle of holy water.  Dean rolled his eyes, but didn’t put up too much of a fuss because…PIE.  In fact, Matt was fairly certain that with pie on the line he could convince Dean to go along with almost anything.  He tucked that thought away for future reference.

       They stood outside the door of the dingy white-washed diner while Matt scanned for danger within.  The conversations he overheard were innocent, but the smell of sulfur nearly had him launching into full Daredevil mode, costume or no, until he detected the sulfur-y scent was surrounded by the tang of mayo, pungent dill and sweet onion, and was in fact egg salad and not of demonic origin (though Dean begged to differ). 

       Matt was like a tuning fork, standing straight and stiff, vibrating almost visibly, and producing a single tone:  panic.  Dean crossed the few inches that separated them and pressed himself firmly to Matt’s side. “It’s okay, babe.  You’re okay.” 

       “Not me I’m worried about.”

       “Me?” 

_Still_ , Matt mused unhappily.  Dean still was surprised that Matt could, that _anyone_ could, care enough about him to worry.  

       “Babe, no monster’s ever been brave enough to come between me and food.  That ain’t changing today.”  Dean grasped the door handle and attempted to step forward only to be jerked back by the solid hand on his jacket.

       “Not yet.”  Matt did another scan of the conversations.

       A Dean Winchester who had missed one of his regular feedings was more dangerous than a starving piranha and bitchier than a hungry woman in her third trimester of pregnancy (not that anyone had ever dared tell him so out loud).  “Matt, it’s been a shitty day.  I’m wet.  And I’m hungry.  Man wasn’t meant to live on come alone.”

       The vigilante winced and (Dean thought with satisfaction) there was a tinge of green beneath his skin.  “You can’t just…  That’s just…EW!”

       Dean smirked, eyelashes matted into supermodel spikes from the rain.  “That’s not what you were saying earlier, babe.”  He tugged on the door handle and this time Matt didn’t hold him back.  “I might have to run a tally on your bitchfaces too.  Matt Murdock versus Sam Winchester.  The winner gets a pair of panties.”

       Leaning close to Dean’s ear, Matt rumbled:  “One word, Winchester before you keep digging that hole deeper:  cock cage.”

       Matt felt the shudder run through Dean’s body, but the hunter still managed to sound insolent as he was choking on his own spit:  “Pretty…sure that’s two…words, Murdock.”  Matt _helpfully_ pounded him on the back until he no longer sounded like a tuberculosis victim about to hack up a lung. 

       Shaking his head and wondering how this had suddenly become a natural exchange, Matt rather firmly directed Dean to a booth – one along the wall and not near the window.  He let Dean sit then slid in beside the hunter, shielding his puppy from view.  And people _were_ looking.  Dean just naturally attracted attention.  The younger man flexed his elbows to push the older man out of his space, but gained no ground.  “Matt…”  It was a shot across the bow in warning.

       “Dean…”

       “Why does that sound like a triple dog dare?”

       Dean swore that behind the glasses, Matt’s pale blue eyes gleamed.  “Do you want to find out?”

       The younger man groaned.  “Dude, don’t ever challenge a Winchester!  It’s like catnip.  We can’t resist.”

       Matt curled his fingers in invitation for Dean to “bring it on” and Dean’s expression turned both calculating and gleeful.  When the waitress came over with two glasses of water the hunter piped up loudly:  “I’m so calling your bluff on the cock cage, babe.  You couldn’t even say it without blushing.  No way would you actually walk into a store that sells that kind of thing.  And puttin’ it on me?  Hah!”  He checked out the waitress, a woman who looked to be in her late forties or fifties, hair teased out into a blond football helmet with dark roots, heavy eyeliner, Tammy Faye mascara, and a pen tucked behind her ear.  “Am I right…Beverly?”

       Dean wasn’t expecting the woman to slap him with a no-nonsense look that made him want to hide behind Matt for protection.  He did notice the lawyer was grinning triumphantly, which immediately sent red flags waving.

       “Baby,” Beverly leaned onto the table and Dean cowered even more, belatedly remembering his newly discovered fear of older women.  “If you were mine I’d have your sweet little sausage under lock and key twenty-four/seven unless I was puttin’ it to good use.”  The sound of Dean’s stutters reminded Matt of a water sprinkler. 

       “What about him?” Dean pushed Matt forward, offering him to the woman with the feline grin who was watching him like he was a particularly juicy mouse.

       “Matty, if this pretty little thing belongs to you, I suggest send him to bed ass up, red and bare until he learns some manners.  You need some help lockin' him up, you let me know, I'd be happy to oblige.”  She gave Dean a lascivious wink.

       “Yes, ma’am.”  Matt was trying so hard to hold back the laughter Dean hoped he’d pee his pants.  Other patrons had overheard the exchange as well and weren’t making the slightest effort to hold back their snorts and cackles.  Some were even shouting out additional advice for the couple.

       Dean’s face was so hot he thought he might start melting, like a bright red cherry Deansicle, but he managed to flash the woman a smile as he peered up at her through his thick lashes.  He knew the power of that look.  He’d taken Josie down with it.  Beverly was immune.  She turned an amused gaze to Matt.  “This is the kid who hustled Lester?”  She laughed now at their slack-jawed looks of surprise.  “Word gets around, boys.”  Her look turned solemn.  “Strangers get on the wrong side of locals, well, typically those strangers get what they deserve.  But Josie likes this one, and it’s obvious you do too, Matty.  Lester stops in here sometimes.  I’ll keep my ears open and call Josie if I find out trouble’s headed your way.”

       “Thanks, Bev.”

       She nodded, but then gave a hoot.  “Bullseye got hustled!  That would’ve been somethin’ to see!”  Beverly leaned back again, taking her pad from her apron pocket and her pen from behind her ear.  “Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen, cutie.  I think you just might fit in here.”  She gave the end of her pen a quick lick.  “Now, what do you boys want to eat?”

       When she left with their orders, Matt turned to Dean whose face was still hot.  “So how was that catnip, Winchester?”

       “Smelled like curiosity,” Dean grumbled, fanning his red face.

        "Beverly's a good woman.  Foggy and I helped the family with an insurance settlement.  Seven sons who've never been in a lick of trouble and a husband who worships her like the Madonna.  I don't doubt she knows how to make boys mind her."

       Matt wished he could see what happened to Dean’s freckles when the hunter blushed and pouted.  He raised a hand to the heated face, brushing Dean’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose with his fingertips.  The skin was damp with drying rain and a faint sheen of sweat from the intensity of his blush.  A hint of stubble roughened his cheeks, but the freckles were invisible to Matt’s fingers.  He tugged Dean’s lower lip out from between his teeth.  Focusing on Dean caused his guts to twist again.  Dean was the vessel of Michael the Archangel.  He was heaven’s sword, intended to defeat Lucifer himself.  He was on hell’s hit list.  An army of angels was watching their every move.  The Apocalypse was coming, and Matt couldn’t tell anyone.  This was above the pay-grade of a part-time superhero who hadn’t even worn the costume for a year.

       Dean turned his head and gently bit Matt’s fingers.  “Come on back to me, babe.”  Matt gave a loud inhale and let Dean’s presence ground him.  “You’d think if monsters were real there’d also be good wizards and unicorns and ladies rising out of lakes to give you magic swords and balance it all out, but there ain’t.  And if angels are real, man, after what I’ve seen today, they’re just dicks with wings.”  Dean was relieved to get a wry smile from Matt’s tempting lips.  “And remember, we may just be squishy humans, but somehow we always come out on top of the monsters.”

        _Yeah, but at what price?_   It was a question Matt didn’t ask out loud.  He had been willing to die, willing to lose Foggy’s friendship, even willing to kill to take down Wilson Fisk and his allies.  He wasn’t necessarily proud of his choices and he thanked God every time he was down on his knees that Fate hadn’t forced him to cash in any of those chips.  He could feel Dean’s worry transmitted from the younger man’s body to his through the touch of his fingertips, and he could detect the subtle shift in Dean’s scent caused by the hormones and chemicals released by stress.  He forced a smile to his face, hoping Dean couldn’t see the lie in his eyes through the rose-tinted glasses.  “So, we have a bar to protect and a slumber party to plan?”

       “Can I call Mahoney and tell him I want us to spend the night together?”

       Matt’s laughter was genuine this time.  “Only if I get to listen in to that conversation.”

       “Could I even stop you?”

       “Maybe if you go to Jersey to make the call.”

       Dean’s grin melted away.  “What about Sammy?”  He couldn’t keep the plea out of his voice, and Matt knew there were big green eyes and a plump lower lip pointed in his direction.

       “Are you trying to change my mind or yours?  I thought we agreed Sam is staying away from the hunt.  If you want to include him on the research, I can live with that, but I won’t leave you alone with him.”  Dean frowned, but Matt held firm.  “That’s final, Dean.”  He could feel the recoil those words caused in the younger man.

       “He’s my brother.”

       “And I’m asking you to trust me.”

       “That’s not fair.”  Dean crossed his arms over his chest mulishly.  God, was he eight?  He sounded like was eight, didn’t he?

       “I’d rather be right.”  Matt knew he was being a jerk, but he _couldn’t_ tell Dean the real reason behind his decision, Castiel had seen to that.  “With Sam tainted, you’re the only one with the knowledge and the experience to head up this fight.  I’m not taking a chance on anything happening to you.” 

       Dean echoed Matt’s words in an unflattering, but hilarious impersonation of the lawyer.  Yeah, he was eight.  What’s worse was that he agreed with Matt, he just didn’t like it.  He gave Daredevil a shove.  “Dude, go sit on the other side.  I doubt Beverly is in league with Satan.  I don’t need a bodyguard.”  Matt let Dean have that small victory, and moved to the other side of the booth so the hunter could stretch and check out the other diners.  Dean’s happiness was short-lived.  “Now I’m cold,” he complained.

       “Winchester…”  The arrival of food brought their discussion to a temporary standstill. 

       Matt watched in awestruck horrified fascination as Dean chomped his way through half a bacon cheeseburger with extra onions and a double order of onion rings all the while laying out plans for the afternoon that Matt, even with his sensitive ears, couldn’t fully comprehend when spoken through a mouth stuffed with food.  Dean ate like he didn’t know when or if he’d get to eat again; or the way he ate was just another piece of his armor, another tool to push people away or stop them from watching too closely.  Likely all of the above as well as a touch of the uncivilized, the wild child who’d raised himself and hadn’t been taught any better…except Dean did know better.  Matt cleared his throat.  His own burger sat forgotten on his plate.  “Puppy, do I need to call Pastor Jim and ask him the punishment he imposed on little hunters who forgot their manners?”

       “Nuh…”  Dean closed his mouth and swallowed the oversized bite of burger, wincing as it stretched his gullet on the way down.  “No, sir.”

       A frisson of arousal raced through Matt’s veins, the way he imagined a junkie must feel after a mainline of smack.  His nostrils flared, his heartbeat quickened, his pupils dilated, the jeans he was wearing became a tad bit too tight in a certain area.  All in response to those two words from the beautiful urchin sitting across from him.  _Mine_ , that voice in his head preened.  Matt’s tongue swiped across his lips.  “Then unless you want me to drag you out of here by your ear before you’ve had your pie, I suggest you remember.”

       “Yes, sir.”  Those two words were accompanied by a smirk and a flutter of eyelashes that would put Scarlet O’Hara to shame.  Damnit.  Dean apparently didn’t need superpowers to read Matt like a pre-school primer.

       “And ditch those raw onions, Winchester, if you’re hoping for more kisses in the near future.”

       “Like you could resist me.”

       Matt rolled his eyes.  “Brat.”

       “Dick.”  Dean got rid of the onions.

       Matt knew Dean liked pie, but he hadn’t yet witnessed that love affair first hand.  Dean’s table manners were still atrocious, but in an entirely different way and with an entirely different effect on his companion.  The hunter’s aura began to glow with delight when Beverly appeared bearing a slice of every pie on the menu.  Matt managed to sneak a bite or two, but he got far more enjoyment from Dean.  By Dean’s fifth slice of pie, the hunter’s moans of pleasure had Matt shifting in his seat and unable to sit still.  Matt had lost count of the number of times Dean had ignored fork and spoon to take a tasty bit into his fingers and bring it straight to his mouth.  He’d then proceed to lick and curl his tongue around those fingers.  Matt had actually caught himself unknowingly mimicking the motions of Dean’s tongue as it attempted to capture the sweetness sticking to his hand.  And then Dean would stick those fingers into his mouth and suck…  “Shit.”  Matt took advantage of the napkin in his lap to discreetly palm his erection.

       “What?”  Dean was adorably clueless.  There had been nothing wicked or intentional in Dean’s behavior.  That innocence made it all the more seductive.

       “Which was your favorite?”  Matt’s voice was husky and Dean quickly realized why.

       “Ummm…the chocolate pecan.”  In contrast to his earlier brashness, Dean was shy now, caught far off guard by the unintended consequences of his actions.

       “Beverly,” the waitress was right at Matt’s elbow, “I need a chocolate pecan pie to go.”

       “Mmhm,” she didn’t disagree.  “After that show, I don’t blame you.  I had to turn the thermostat down a notch or two.”

       Dean reached for his wallet, but Matt stopped his hand.  “I promised you pie, baby.”

       “That’s a lot of pie,” Dean protested, reaching for his money again.

       “Worth every penny.”

       “When are we going to eat that one?” Dean already had his eyes on the white box in Beverly’s hands as she returned to them.

       Matt’s secret little smile was hot enough to make Dean’s underwear steam (if he’d been wearing any).


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

 

       Rain was still falling from the sky in thick ropes as they hustled down the sidewalk to Josie’s.  Matt felt a prickling on his skin as eyes watched them, not superpowers, but good old-fashioned intuition.  He shielded Dean from the spy as best he could.  “Know what you’re trying to do,” Dean commented.  “I feel it too.  Been huntin’ too long not to.”

       “Too early in the day for the daeva.”

       “Thank God,” Dean agreed.  “That just leaves a demon, Bullseye The Sore Loser, or your garden variety monster or human stalker.”

       “That about sums it up.  We need to get your things from the car.”

       The hunter nodded and quickly moved his gun from the small of his back to the front of his pants.

       “I didn’t think bullets would kill a demon?”

       “Nope,” he popped the _p_ like chewing gum.  “But you take out its knee caps and it’ll sure have a hard time catching you.”

       “I’ll remember that.” 

       The box containing the pie was safely tucked into a white plastic bag that Matt slid over his wrist.  A click and a squeak of metal accompanied the opening of Baby’s trunk.  Dean moved quickly, loading Matt’s arms with the purchases from the hardware store.  The lawyer was about to express his dissatisfaction with the unequal distribution of weight between the two of them when Dean raised the false bottom of the trunk unleashing the scents of gun powder, silver, gasoline and an odd variety of herbs whose combined scent made Matt sneeze.  Matt was stunned by the hidden arsenal.  With well-practiced and concise movements, Dean selected an assortment of weapons and ammo and tossed them into the duffel bags which he slung over his shoulder.  He closed the trunk with a wicked looking sawed-off shotgun in hand and clearly visible to their stalker if only for the instant needed to convey the intended message: _Keep away_.  The look on Matt's face was easy to interpret.  "You can see this?" Dean gave the shotgun a jerk which made the leather of his jacket swing.

       "Yeah.  See it, hear it, smell it."  

       "Good to know.  You can relax your titanium ass cheeks, superman, it's loaded with salt.  I'm not lookin' to catch any innocents in the crossfire.  It'd just sting like a bitch."

       "Good to know."  Matt's dark eyebrows knit together in a way that Dean already knew meant disapproval.  

       "Hunters and guns are like PB & J, man.  I'm still one of the good guys...most days."  He took an armload of supplies and a gallon of paint from Matt’s hands before they closed the final distance to Josie’s.

       The jingle of the bell over Josie’s door brought a sense of relief that was short-lived when they were greeted by the rest of their band of demon-hunters, _sans_ Mahoney, who were plenty pissed if Dean was asked to judge by their expressions.  The guns pointed in their direction may also have been a hint.

       “Where the hell have you been?”

       “Drop the shotgun!”

       “Is it too much to ask that you answer your damn phones?”

       “Matt, what the…  Are you wearing flannel?”

       “Is that a hickey?”  Gun in hand, Sam’s long strides ate up the distance between himself and his brother.  With his arms full, Dean’s options were to drop everything, shoot Sam in the gut, or tolerate the rough inspection as his brother examined his neck, using a fistful of wet hair to manipulate his head.  Dean wasn’t going to shoot Sam, and it was his own feet that would suffer if he dropped the gallon of paint and bundle of iron fireplace pokers, so he accepted the manhandling.  “You look like a vampire’s chew toy.”

       The angel’s warnings were buzzing in Matt’s ears.  He shoved his armload of supplies at Turk who had also come forward, the larger man too shocked to do anything but catch the hardware store bags that were thrust into his chest.  Matt barely remembered to rein in Daredevil, driving Sam away from Dean with an _accidental_ whack of his cane to Sam’s arm.  “Stay away from Dean,” the command came out in a raspy bark.

       “Easy, babe,” Dean attempted to calm his superhero.  “You’re still carrying my pie.”  And Sam still had a gun in his hand.

       Foggy choked when he saw how easily the green-eyed young man wiped the grim look from his friend's face.  He hadn't seen Matt fall so hard since he'd hooked up with that foreign heiress in college.  Matt’s razor sharp features broke into a grin though he maintained his protective stance between Dean and the rest of the room.  “Pie.  That’s your first priority?”  He wiped away a rivulet of rain water making a path from Dean’s hairline into his eye and Dean had to question again whether Matt was really blind.  Sam made a gagging sound, but he tucked the weapon back into his pants.

       “Eh…” Dean managed a shrug though his arms were still weighted down.  “I figure you share my love of pie, but we have different opinions on Sammy here.”

       “Sam.”  Bitchface number one, Dean began the tally.  He noticed Sam using the fingers of his right hand to press into the meaty flesh at the base of his left thumb.  It was a giveaway, a tell:  Sam always used that simple method to keep himself awake on a long hunt, or to convince himself of what was real and what wasn’t when the supernatural blurred the lines.  The demon blood was still messing with his head, but he was fighting for control.  

       “I don’t love pie the way you love pie, but I do love the way you love pie, puppy.”  Dean loved Matt’s grin, the insinuating waggle of his eyebrows and the crows feet that appeared outside the frame of his glasses.

       That backed Sam away faster than the threat of another blow from the cane in the blind man’s hands.  “Ew…I don’t want to know.”

       Several voices spoke up at once demanding answers to the same questions that had been thrown at them when they entered, but Foggy’s was the loudest:  “Not so fast!”  He walked over to the bar and slapped his hand down like a cowboy in cheap western.  “Two shots of demon’s bane, Josie.”  He pointed at Dean.  “We thought we’d add it to the menu.”  Josie sat two shot glasses on the bar and filled them from a jug she pulled from under the counter.  Dean saw a rosary coiled at the bottom of the clear jug and figured Sam had a hand in the recipe.  “I’ve known Matt for more than ten years and in that time he has made some questionable fashion decisions.  Seersucker!” He coughed the last word into his hand.

       “Not fair!  Every wannabe lawyer goes through an Atticus Finch phase,”  Mat attempted to defend himself even as he made his way to the bar, needlessly tapping out the path with his cane and taking Dean’s arm.

       “I’ve seen the movie thirty-seven times, buddy, and Atticus Finch does not wear seersucker.”

       “Shut up.”

       “Flannel, Matthew?”  Foggy shook his head.  “And wingtips!  If you’re not possessed we definitely have to get you a personal shopper.”  Matt downed the shot, grimacing as the brine filled his mouth, but he gagged it down, noticing a familiar taste.

       "Tequila?"

       Foggy nodded in satisfaction.  "Sam said the alcohol doesn't have an effect on the holy water, so we did our own thing." 

       Matt stripped off the wet flannel.  He was wearing Dean’s favorite Metallica t-shirt underneath.  While the choice of footwear still left much to be desired, Foggy looked jealously at the way his friend filled out a t-shirt.  He wasn’t the only one staring.

       The sight of Matt’s lean and muscular arms made Dean’s mouth water.  Sam caught him with a side-eye and raised his eyebrow obviously questioning the significance of him gifting the lawyer with his Metallica shirt.  Dean drank his shot of salt water and grinned, “I gave him my last pair of clean underwear too.”  Sam hastily retreated to the table where Turk was looking over Dean’s purchases.  And thus the score was now:  "Bitchface two for Sam.”

       “Nah, you’ve missed at least twenty.  It seems to be an after effect of demon-blood ingestion.” Foggy advised.  “Now what kind of pie did you bring us?”

       “Hands off the merchandise, _Franklin_ ,” Dean warned as Foggy made his way over to the white bag.

       As if a spell had suddenly been broken, Karen burst out:  “You’re gay?”  She slapped her hand over her mouth as fast as the words escaped.  The night before, she’d found comfort in plausible deniability, refusing to accept the odd but obvious attraction between the two men.  She didn’t have a problem with it, except…well…except she’d been working up the courage to become a little more aggressive in her flirting with her blind employer.  She thought the feelings had been mutual.

       “Maybe a little bit bi.”  Matt winced.  "Not since college, but..." He didn't know how to explain the inexplicable attraction to Dean.  Karen was smart and sweet and brave and…and Matt had maybe been flirting with her a little more than usual the last month leading up to…something.  Something that he was no longer quite sure he wanted, but he didn’t know if he was willing to give it up either.  “I’m sorry.  I know we…  I didn’t expect…” 

       Karen nodded, holding up her hand to halt his awkward apology.  “It’s okay.  I don’t think any of us expected…this.”  She gave a smile that was both strained and forgiving.

       Matt wanted to explain more.  Karen deserved more.  But there was no privacy in the bar during the day with all the lights on and the jukebox silent and a small, but attentive, audience, hanging on their every word, and Dean...  Dean!  Matt could feel Dean shrinking behind him.  He didn’t need to see the kicked puppy expression to know Mama Bear Josie was shooting daggers from her eyes at him.  At this point, he knew Dean well enough to know the hunter was comparing himself to Karen and convincing himself that he was lacking in every way imaginable.  Matt turned and grabbed Dean by the arms, giving him the slightest shake.  “I know what you’re doing, and it’s going to stop right now.” 

       “You’re right, it is.”  Dean broke free from the loose hold and turned away.

       “Hey, you’re not running away from me.  I’m not letting go, Dean.” 

       “Yeah, you are,” Foggy put a hand against his shoulder and considered himself fortunate that said hand remained connected to his body.  Judging by the look on Matt’s face it was a close call.  “Give him some space.”

       Dean made his way to the jukebox like a man on a mission, ignoring the others who, for their part, tried to act like they weren’t staring.  “Josie, it’s too goddamn quiet in here.  Do you mind…?”  He pulled a bill out of his wallet and fed it into the machine.

       “Not at all, sugar.”

       Hunched over the Wurlitzer, Dean rested his head on an arm and gave himself a moment to close his eyes and let out a shaky breath that no one but Matt could hear.  Matt wished he could throw some glass against a wall.  It seemed they got knocked on their ass every time they started to make progress.  This time was all on him.  He was willing to take the blame.  He…

        _Master of Puppets_ began to blast from the Wurlitzer’s speakers.  As _THAT_ song continued to play, Matt was tempted to pound out the rhythm on the ass of one Dean Winchester even as he realized the moody little brat had put a smile on his face once again.

       Foggy shook his head, eyes wide and wondering what the hell had just happened.  “You’re smiling now.  Did I miss something?”

       “Inside joke.  He's pissed, but we're gonna be okay.”

       “Inside…   _We're_ gonna be okay?  You’ve spent less than twenty-four hours with the kid!”

       Matt shrugged off his concern.  “We move kinda fast.  This is already our…fifth break-up.”  He counted on his fingers, lips moving as he silently reviewed their relationship.  “No, sixth.”

       “That doesn’t sound like a match made in heaven, Matt.”  It sounded like Electra all over again, but that was one name Foggy knew never to say aloud.

       The smile disappeared from Matt’s face so quickly that Foggy was certain Matt had read his mind.  “Thank God.  I’m having a crisis of faith at the moment.  I’d prefer heaven keep the fuck away from us.  Hell too for that matter.”

       A frown darkened the blond lawyer’s expression, “Is this about the whole gay thing?”

       “Wha…?”  Matt’s laughter made the entire bar turn to stare.  It was loud and unsettling with a note of bitterness.  “No worries there.  Turns out angels are a bunch of fuckin’ voyeurs who like Dean and his perky little butt as much as I do.  Wouldn’t that just knock the bible belt on its ass?”

       “Are you…” 

       Foggy’s further inquiries into Matt’s mental health were cut short by Sam’s presence.  The boy moved across the floor like a freight train building up a good head of steam which he released with his fist straight into Matt’s jaw.  Matt knew it was coming and had no choice but to let it make contact or block the punch with some moves well beyond the capabilities of your everyday blind man.  “Stay away from my brother!”

       “Shi…!”  Matt hadn’t expected it to hurt that much.  Belatedly he remembered Castiel’s warning that the demon blood made Sam stronger.

       “Sam!’ Karen screamed as the shaggy haired kid shoved Foggy out of the way and punched Matt a second time.

       “Hey!”  Josie looked like she was ready to come over the counter to kick Sam’s gigantor ass herself.

       Foggy instinctively put himself between Matt and the threat, still not used to the fact that Matt could take care of himself in a fight.  Grabbing Foggy by the lapels of his jacket, Sam was about to send him flying when Turk grabbed him around the waist, hauling him off his feet.  Dean was just a step behind.  “Jesus Christ, Sammy!  What are you doin’?”

       “You’re crying,” Sam growled.  “I’ve stitched you up more times than I can count, watched Dad beat the crap out of you and call you every name in the book, seen you pummeled by monsters.  I’ve never seen you cry over a girl.  Not even Cassie.”

       “’M not cryin’,” Dean rubbed a hand over eyes that were red from rain, stress and too much emotion.  “And if you want to call Matt a girl then...  You’re…  You’re bleeding!”  Dean was at Matt’s side so fast there should have been a sonic boom.  “I can’t believe you hit a blind guy, Sammy!”  He was poking at the darkening spot on Matt’s jaw.  The constipated expression Dean mistook for pain, was actually Matt’s best effort to prevent himself from grinning ear to ear over Dean's reaction.  “Josie, is there ice?”  She handed Dean a napkin filled with ice which he held to Matt's face as the lawyer winced.

       Sam looked primly down at his allies who didn’t know whether to yell at him or douse him with holy water.  “Y’all oughta be kissin’ my ass right now,” the young man informed them.  “Unless you wanted to listen to Dean replay _Master of Puppets_ all afternoon while the two of them moped like teenage girls.”

       “Josie, get the kid a beer,” Turk instructed.  “I got first round.”

       "Fuck you," Dean said, adding the coordinating gesture.

       Foggy pretended to stagger backwards.  "Don't tell me that's a bitchface, I see on the face of Dean Winchester."  He gave Sam a slap on the back.  "Oh, does that count as number two or is that just a continuation of the first one?"

       "Two," Sam agreed.

       "Then that look definitely counts as three."

       Dean was getting to off the bar stool to start some punching when Josie handed him his own beer.  "Settle down, sugar.  You got your man, let them have their fun."

       “Glad to see y’all actually broke up the sexscapades to join us,” the moose added.  His smile was stretched thin and he was rubbing his thumb, but he was making a valiant effort at their normal banter.

       Recognizing Sam's prissy schoolmarm tone, Dean made another gesture as he removed the ice pack from Matt's jaw, replacing it with the frosty glass of beer, not even snatching it back when the lawyer took it from his hand and began to drink.  

       With an uptight huff, Sam continued the lecture.  “Meg’s gotta set up a new altar somewhere.  Turk and Karen have been going over a map of Hell’s Kitchen to give us an idea of where she might go next.  Brett’s gathering evidence from the new crime scene and getting Meg’s description out there.  Foggy and I went to the Columbia library and found the exorcism ritual.  There’s some kind of home brew the exorcist has to drink in order to see the daeva.  The theory is that the one with the power to see it has the power to kill it.  We’ve been looking at lots of ancient texts, pulling information up on the internet, and we figured out the ingredients:  goat’s milk, poppy juice, actual sticks of ephedra wood and pomegranate branches, and holy water.”

       Dean smacked his lips, stealing back his beer for a drink.  “Sounds tasty.  Lots of fiber.”

       “It gets better,” Foggy added.  “You’ve got to pulverize the ephedra, but the pomegranate you bind together and let it steep in the liquid while the mixture ferments.”

       “Fermented goat’s milk.”  Even Dean’s cast iron stomach churned in dread.

       “Ah, ah, ah,” Foggy waved his finger, “there’s more.  Once you’ve got a nice rotten cottage cheese texture going (Dean was tempted to let the demons have New York), you take the bundle of pomegranate sticks out and let it dry so you can set it on fire later in the ritual.”

       That news brought a sigh of relief.  “Thank God.  I thought you were gonna tell me I had to drink it.”

       Foggy was clearly enjoying himself.  “Oh, no.  First you strain it through a filter made from the cast off hair of a white bull.  Then you drink it.”

       “That’s a recipe for food poisoning,” Turk warned.

       "Throw in some bacon grease and Dean will eat it,” Sam advised.  The teasing wasn't unusual, but his tone was still ugly with Meg's influence. 

       "Four," Turk chimed in, enjoying the bitchface game.

       Sam sneered.  “Brett was able to smuggle ephedra and a ritual bowl from the dead lady’s store.  Turk here scored us some poppy heads straight from Afghanistan, none of that domesticated American flower bed fluff.”

       Turk suddenly felt the weight of Matt’s judgmental brain waves crashing into him.  “Hey, now.  I still have the connections.  I ain’t been using them.”  He raised his pants leg to flash an ankle monitor.  “I still got six months probation and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen breathin’ down my neck, I ain’t gonna screw that up.”

       “How convenient this qualifies as a life or death situation, huh?” Matt’s voice was expressionless.  He knew Turk was lying, but now wasn’t the time to call him on it.

       “For the city,” Turk couldn’t even fake sincerity.

       Matt shook his head.  Turk had his uses, and this was one of them.  The information he provided to Daredevil and the cops was worth keeping him on the street.  The nudge of Dean’s sharp elbow brought his attention back to Sam.  “Yeah,” Sam looked back and forth between the imposing black man and…Dean’s boyfriend (?), but continued when it looked like each side had mentally retreated to his own corner to await the next round.  “Goat’s milk wasn’t hard to find and I used the blessed rosary we have to make holy water.  We’ve already got a batch brewing.”

       "Not putting this one on the menu anytime soon," Josie made a face as if she could already smell the concoction.

       “And what about the hair of a white bull?” Matt asked.

       “We’re going to use a piece of unbleached white wool.  Over time you learn that some parts of these rituals are more suggestions than a strict recipe.  There’s a nine day purification ritual that involves a lot of different body fluids and digging a lot of holes.  I think that’s more to prepare the exorcist and, therefore, not vital to the exorcism itself.  We think we can have everything ready to go by tomorrow night.”  Sam had filled his quota of Dean exposure, the corruption in his veins fueling his outrage.  He glared at his brother.  “That’s what we’ve been doing while you were eating pie and getting stuffed full of dick.”  His face contorted with rage almost equal to that of the lawyer who had come to his feet with his cane in hand.

       "Can you tell us what these are?" Karen raised her voice over the tension and the sounds of _Hey Jude_ from the jukebox.  In her hand she had the information from Bobby Singer, the diagrams of several mandalas.

       Dean pushed between his brother and his (maybe) boyfriend with a little more force than necessary, shoving the two of them apart far enough to let him pass between them.  Karen passed the younger man the papers, her hand giving his a squeeze as her lips formed a silent apology for what had happened earlier.  Dean nodded, looking away quickly, gratefully, guiltily.   "This is how we catch a demon."

       By the time Dean finished explaining the devil's trap, Sam was the one wearing a guilty expression.  The older brother ignored the younger's puppy dog eyes and shrugged off the _are you okay_ touches from his lover.  He supervised the mixing of the salt and iron filings with the bucket of white paint and assigned paint brushes to the others.  Josie and Turk went upstairs to take care of all the window sills in her living space. Foggy and Sam were going to handle the front windows and main entrance.  He had planned on spray painting the Key of Solomon on the floor himself and giving Karen the job of securing the back entrance, but when he found her standing with Matt, heads bowed, voices soft, her fingers in Matt's hand, he decided a trip to the solitude of the back kitchen sounded like a good place to hide for awhile.

*****      

       Through a door marked _Employees Only_ was the storeroom and kitchen, a set of stairs leading to Josie’s apartment and the extra bedroom, and another set leading to the cellar.  The smell of paint in the closed space made Matt's head swim even as he felt a rain sweet breeze stir the air.  He found Dean leaning against the stainless steel counter top with a bottle of beer in hand, the paint job already complete and the back exit door propped open to let out the fumes.  Dean hadn't moved as he heard the tap of Matt's cane.  The lawyer's arrival wasn't unexpected. "Thanks."

       “What are you thanking me for?”  Closer to the sink, Matt could smell more chemicals where Dean had cleaned the paintbrush he'd used.  Unsure of his reception, Matt leaned against the counter opposite the hunter.

       “For letting Sammy hit you.  You could’ve hurt him if you wanted to.”

       “I deserved it.”

       “From Karen maybe.  Not from Sam.”

       “Dean, there's nothing between me and Karen.  We’ve never kissed.  We’ve never gone out on a date.  We just like each other and flirted a bit.  Maybe...”

       “And then I fucked it up!  Matt, she’s beautiful, and smart, and…”

       “And so are you.  Dean, you're every bit as...”

       Dean pushed off the counter, a step closer to Matt's space.  “Do I need to remind you what I am?  What I’ve done?  She’s better than me, and you know it.”  Matt frowned and pushed him away, beginning his own search of the kitchen.  Dean’s heart lurched when Matt shoved him aside, but when the blind man proceeded to rummage through kitchen drawers rather than rush to the strawberry blond ingénue in the bar, he felt both hope that Matt might stay and the need to push him away again.  Dean knew he was fucked up, he’d never claimed to be anything but.  “I can tell you both like each other.  Somebody like her you could…” he waved his arms, “…you could be normal.”  The lawyer came back around the counter to stare in his direction as he babbled.  As Dean went on, Matt's eyebrows formed a dark and unyielding line and he crossed his bare arms.  Dean liked those arms.  He stopped talking as his mouth went dry. 

       In response to Dean’s quizzical frown, Matt displayed a flat wooden spoon with a large slotted oval head.  “You’re gonna learn how to accept a compliment, puppy.”

       Dean began backing away, eyes on the instrument of torture, a knot of dread heavy in his gut even as another part of his anatomy twitched in curiosity and the _Hallelujah Chorus_ broke out at full volume to awaken the hope he thought had died...Matt was choosing him.  Matt was going to take care of him.  He didn't realize how long he was the chasing puppies and rainbows in his head until Matt's stern voice broke through:  "I suggest you come here, unless you want me to use your belt again.  I don’t recommend that course of action, because I think this might take awhile.”

       One glance at the impressive man, the fucking superhero, and Dean felt doubt press the mute button on the celebration and the usual voices were back.  “You’re wasting time, Matt.  You’ve got a fairy princess out there.  I’m just…”

       “That’s three with the belt on top of your lesson.”  Matt shut the open door.

       “Matt…”  Dean felt the delicious ball of dread grow larger and heavier.  He couldn’t draw in a deep breath and his knees felt like they couldn’t support his weight much longer.  “We don’t have time for this,” he snapped.

       “Five.”  He held out his hand for Dean to come closer.       

       Dean stomped over to his (temporary) boyfriend, knowing that Matt could sense his arousal.  “You’re a dick.”  

       “And you’re my brat.”  He kissed the scowling hunter, licking his lips after and wondering if the taste of blackberries was just his imagination.  “Mine, Dean," he felt the younger man lean just a little closer, heard the smallest sigh.  With a hand on the back of Dean's neck, he pulled them together until their foreheads touched.  "Now, take off your belt, pants down to your knees and bend over the counter.”

       “Pretty sure this is a health code violation,” Dean griped, but, with Matt's hands remaining on his shoulders to steady him, he did what he was told…to a point. 

       Matt guided him into position over the stainless steel counter top.  “Stop squirming.”

       “’S fucking cold.”  

       “You’ll be warm soon enough.”  A firm hand slid under Dean's shirt to press the small of his back, calming his wriggling movements.  “I’ve got you.”  He didn’t move until he felt the hunter relax.  Leaving the one hand on Dean’s back, he raised the other and brought it down swiftly.  The crack of skin hitting skin bounced off the many smooth metal surfaces in the crowded kitchen.  To Matt, each spank was a flash of light, a solar flare, a spark caused by the striking of skin instead of flint.  He found a rhythm and Dean settled, comforted by the repetition and the warmth that was beginning to radiate from his ass.  Matt was only too happy to turn that ass a lovely shade of bubblegum pink, not that he could appreciate the color, but judging from the heat he gauged he had managed a nice medium rare rump roast.  “You took that so well, Dean.”  He wished he could see his handiwork, but he settled for the feel of his stinging palm caressing over the perfect globes of Dean’s ass.  “You’re beautiful,” he sighed.  After indulging himself a little longer he took the wooden spoon in hand.  “Here’s how this is gonna work, baby…  You listening?”  He continued once he heard Dean’s hum:  “I’m going to give you ten compliments.  Before each one you’re going to get twenty-five licks…”  He gave Dean a rather hard swat right then upon hearing his giggle.  “Not that kind of lick, my little monster.”  He rubbed the new mark as he continued to talk.  “After each one, all you have to do is say _thank you_.  If you don’t say _thank you_ , I’ll spank you until you do.  If you say something negative about yourself, I’ll add another compliment to the list, which means at least another twenty-five spanks.  Understand?”

       “Yes, sir.”

       Those words still made Matt flush, made his fingers dig possessively into Dean’s hips.  “God, Dean, the things you do to me.” 

       The moment was ruined by the small noise of disapproval from the hunter.  The wooden spoon smacked down again, forcing a soft “ah” from those full lips.

       “Snorts of derision count as negative comments.”  Dean nodded.  The rules to this game sounded so simple, but both men already knew how much Dean was going to struggle with them.  The hand on his back moved to his hair, petting him gently, “Deep breath, baby.  I’m here.  I’m not gonna let you fail.”

       “You’re gonna know if I’m lying.”

       “Saying _thank you_ isn’t the same as saying you agree.  That’s something we’ll work on in the future.  Today, all you have to do is say _thanks_.”

       The future...  Before any voices in his head could drown out Matt's promise, Dean nodded and took another deep breath.  The warm calloused hand returned to his back and the spanking began.  With the wooden spoon, the swats didn’t have to be terribly hard to cause a resounding crack to echo through the kitchen…or to leave behind a fierce sting.  Before the twenty-five were complete Dean was dancing on the balls of his feet and his noises were no longer soft.

       As promised, at the twenty-fifth lick, the spanking stopped and Matt began to soothe away the itchy sting.  “Dean Winchester, you’re so brave, baby.  I know how much courage it takes to give yourself over to me like this.  You're giving up your pride, your control, your fear.  Giving it all to me.  Thank you for that gift.”  He gave the hunter a moment to process the statement.  “All you have to do is say thank you.”  Several extra swats produced the desired result.  “Good, Dean.”  The hunter grumbled.  “No!” Matt punctuated his objection with a forceful blow from the spoon that made Dean yelp.  “That’s the only warning you get before I start adding to your total.”  Without waiting for Dean’s response, he began the second set of twenty-five swats with the spoon.  Dean’s noises were getting louder.

       “Dean Winchester, you are incredibly intelligent.  You crafted an EMF detector all on your own.  You translated Latin faster than a Catholic priest and you can read and translate Hebrew.  You don’t need a diploma or a degree to prove to me or anyone that you are just as smart as Sam and your opinion as worthy of respect as your brother’s.”  This one was more difficult.  Matt had known it would be.  He spanked Dean hard while he waited for the appropriate response, offering encouragement all the while.  "All you have to say is thank you."

       Dean shook his head.  "It's not...SHIT...true."

       "It is."

       "OH...MaOW...I...FUCK...I can't!"

       "Take it, baby.  Do it for me.  You don't have to believe it, just take it."  Matt had to swipe at his own...eye sweat.

       Dean continued to protest with shakes of his head until Matt began to work on his sit-spots.  Dean kept his howl behind clenched teeth, but finally, Matt's soft encouragement and the repeated smacks of the make-shift paddle wore down his defenses...“Thank you.”  The whisper was accompanied by a sob.

       “I’m so proud of you, Dean.  You can do this, precious.”  He carded his hand through Dean’s short hair which was still damp from rain and now from sweat as well.  Before beginning the next set, he tugged the younger man’s jeans down to his ankles and stepped on them to prevent anymore kicking.  In spite of the initial flicker of arousal they had both felt, neither man was hard.  This wasn’t that kind of spanking and their dicks knew it.  Through the next twenty-five, Dean’s tears continued. 

       Unable to kick out at the pain, he squirmed and bucked his hips especially as Matt let several swats in a row strike the same spot.  “Fuck!  Matt!”

       “You don’t have to stay quiet, it’s okay.”  Dean whimpered as the twenty-five ended and Matt began to caress his wounded bottom.  He gave the hunter a short break before moving to the third compliment:  “Dean Winchester, breakfast this morning was delicious and I can’t wait to try your hamburgers.”  Matt hoped that would be an easy one, and it was.  There were no extra spanks necessary to draw out Dean’s _thank you_.

       The fourth set of twenty-five was the hardest yet.  Matt knew that the smacks and Dean’s yelps of “OwOwOW!” were heard by the others waiting in the bar, and had become a topic of conversation between them, but, thankfully, no one stormed in to interfere.  Dean was breathing hard and the heat in his ass throbbed in time to his heartbeat.

       “Dean Winchester, you are a beautiful man.  There’s no shame in that.  I can hear the whispers as you walk by, I can see heads turn to watch you, I can tell by the heat and the smell they give off that other men and women see you and want you.  I can’t stop touching you, baby, so I can see what they see, so I can memorize every detail.  And you let me.  You let me touch you and taste you.  You let me call you mine.  And you’re just as beautiful on the inside.  I’m a lucky man.”  That was another tough one.  Dean struggled and yelped and begged his way through several more cracks of the spoon before he gave in and accepted the praise. 

       “Good boy.”  As much as Matt could tell the spanking hurt, he knew it wasn’t leaving bruises, and he knew Dean needed all of it.  Matt proceeded to praise Dean’s dance moves in the shower, his intuition, his ability to catch Matt by surprise, and the way he made the superhero laugh.  When they reached the tenth compliment Dean wasn’t fighting anymore.  He wasn’t broken, he was calm.  The tension had leached from his body gradually between the seventh and ninth compliments.  Tears were puddled under his cheek where it lay against the now warm counter.  His eyes were closed and his breathing was even except for the occasional hitch as a spank landed on a sensitive spot.  Matt knew Dean’s ass had to be a bright red, the blind man thought of fire trucks and the kick ball he played with at recess before he lost his sight.  This was almost over.  He needed Dean in his arms.  “Dean Winchester, you are a shining soul.  You could teach angels what it means to love and serve and protect.  You are a good friend, a good brother, a good son, and a good man.”

       “Thank you.”  There was no hesitation, just a sweet sigh of release.

       Matt draped himself over his hunter.  “I knew you could do it, baby.”  He kissed Dean’s wet cheek.  “Five with your belt, remember?”  Dean nodded, he was almost beyond words.  “Count for me.”

       The smack of leather was like a gunshot and Dean cried out.  “One,” he groaned as he caught his breath and Little Dean woke up.

       “That’s gonna leave a mark, baby.”

       Dean groaned again, shifting his hips.  “Yeah.”  There was a hint of a smile.  "Give me another?"

       Matt brought the leather strap down even harder.  Dean’s yell was indistinguishable from a cry of passion.  “Two.”  His bottom squeezed and he made a soft sound of pleasure then relaxed and did it again.  Blood was flowing to Matt’s dick, and he almost wished Castiel would appear to teleport Matt and Dean both back to Matt’s bedroom.  But as much as Matt wanted to finally claim his hunter’s hot little ass, and as much as Dean seemed to be on board, Matt knew Dean was exhausted in every sense of the word.  He was putting his puppy to bed.

       “Three!  Mmmaaaat…”

       “Almost done, baby.”  The leather cracked again.

       “Four!”  Dean was panting from the pain and the desire.

       Matt stilled the hunter’s wagging hips.  “None of that, Dean.”

       Dean didn’t know if his whimper was a sign of protest or relief.  His cock was only half hard, but he wanted to give more.

       “One more lick.  That’s all I need.  You’ve been so good.  Can you take one more for me?”

       The sounds from Dean’s body and his mouth were an incomprehensible gumbo, but there was no mistaking the way he thrust out his ass, thighs shaking with effort.  Offering himself as the canvas for one more fiery red stroke.  Matt obliged.

       “Five.”  Dean sagged against the counter.

       Like a moth drawn to a light, Matt was compelled to touch.  Dean’s poor bottom was glowing with heat, the raw skin so tender that the slightest touch caused the man to mewl and make a weak attempt to escape.  Matt dragged his nails lightly over the abused skin, catching them on the welts left behind by the belt as Dean gave a startled cry.  His ass felt like it had been cooked, the skin stretched tight and shiny.  Matt placed a soft kiss on Dean’s left hip, his lips were dry and rough from the day’s other kisses, but the soft scrape of chapped lips was nothing to the scrape of Matt’s stubbled cheeks.  Dean rose up onto his toes as he whimpered.  Matt pushed him back down using his tongue to soothe the belt marks, sucking the ridges of raised skin into his mouth then blowing cool breath onto the wet and heated flesh.  “Dean,” it was Matt’s turn to whine.  “Want you so much.”

       “Yours,” came a sweet murmur.

       “So you believe me now?”

       “MmmmmHmmmm.”  Dean stifled a yawn.  "Was a pretty convincing argument."

       Matt swore his insides were glowing as bright as Dean's ass.  “You’re not gonna fall if I step away are you?  I want to get you a drink.” 

       “’M good.”  It was harder to stay on his feet than he thought it would be without Matt’s support keeping him pressed to the counter.  He closed his eyes for what seemed like just a moment, then Matt was raising him up and holding a glass to his lips.  Damn, the smell of the orange juice was awesome.  Had it always smelled this good?  He drank greedily as his superhero chuckled.  “More.”

       “Yes, sir,” Matt teased.

       Dean made a face.  Those words didn’t do for him what they did for Matt.  “Makes me feel like an old man.”

       “Careful there, junior, I still have that wooden spoon.”

       “We're keeping that.  If you're too goody-goody to pickpocket it, I'll do it.  You can punish me later."  Matt gave Dean another kiss. 

       “Smartass.”  He crouched down and began to slide the jeans back up the hunter’s legs.  He gave a kiss to the smooth skin of Dean's inner thigh before he stood and began to ease the jeans over the younger man's bottom.

       Dean took a moment.  A few breaths hissed in and out through his teeth.  Going commando in jeans with a raw butt wasn’t going to be easy.  The denim chafed against his ass as Matt fastened his jeans in place and returned his belt.

       “I don’t think Josie would mind if her spoon found a new home and a new job keeping a certain wayward hunter in line.”  Matt tried not to read anything into the adoption of a pet spanking spoon.  They were just playing, weren’t they?  Was it Dean’s way of saying there were no hard feelings, or did it mean Dean was staying?  That he would come back?  He kept his questions to himself as he held another glass of juice, the noises of Dean's mouth and sighs of pleasure making him want so much more.

*****

       “The fuck?”  Matt’s _suggestion_ that Dean go upstairs and take a nap was not well received.

       “You’re half asleep now, baby.”

       Dean knocked aside the arm that was approaching in order to lead him away.  “Just ‘cause I let you cuddle and call me baby, doesn’t make me one.”

       “Didn’t we just have this discussion?  We agreed that sometimes I’ll make decisions you won’t like.”

       “Yeah, and _sometimes_ I’m gonna let you.  This ain’t one of those times.  Sometimes I’m gonna fight you because I want to see you make me do it.  This ain’t one of those times either.”  Dean didn’t flinch as Matt deliberately let his gaze drop to the leather belt around the hunter’s waist.  Dean took the older man by the chin until their eyes met.  “Matt, I’m a hunter.  This is what I do.  I don’t tell you how to do the ninja shit or file a motion in court, you don’t tell me to take a nap when we’re trying to catch a fucking demon.”

       Logic and threats were both ignored.  Short of knocking Dean out or handcuffing him to the bed (and Dean promised if Matt took that course of action he would sing _Henry the Eighth_ repeatedly at the top of his lungs until he was released or picked the lock), there was no way Matt (or even Daredevil) could claim victory.  Dean continued to smile charmingly eyes bright though red and lips bitten and swollen from rough kisses while Matt glared.  

       "You're drinking the fermented goat's milk."  What sounded like a threat was a concession.  Dean was in charge of the hunt.

       The younger man smirked.  "I'd like to see you try and stop me."

       "Brat."

       "Dick." 

       Damned if Matt didn't find Dean's assertiveness as much of a turn on as his submission.  He was so screwed.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this is what happens on the other side of the door while Matt and Dean are...occupied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long to write! I had a hard time figuring out where I wanted the chapter to go. It's mostly just for fun and for those of you who wondered just what the others were thinking as they overheard the noises from the kitchen. I hope it makes you smile, but I'd love it if it makes you laugh. Let me know if it worked, I really love your comments and kudos! Y'all are wonderful!

Chapter 18

 

       “You alright?” Foggy moved the shot glass into Karen’s line of sight as Matt, wrinkles of worry deep on either side of his mouth, disappeared into the back kitchen through the door that led to Dean.

       “Yeah.  Yes.  Of course.”  She took the shot glass and tossed it back with a stiff wrist, coughing and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before attempting a smile.  “There’s no bad guy here, just bad timing.”

       “Still sucks.”

       She shrugged, pulling back her sunrise colored hair and securing it with a pencil from the bar.  “Yeah, it does.”  Her eyes searched her friend’s face.  “You knew…”  She still had a hard time saying it.

       “That Matt liked guys?  Yeah.  It’s been a long time, but I knew he experimented.  We lived together for almost ten years.  There’s not much I don’t know about the guy.”  There were frown lines across his forehead.  “This isn’t anything serious.”  Karen thought it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

       “Are _you_ okay?  You weren’t carrying a torch for him after all those years were you?”

       “No!  God, no!”  Blond hair flew into the air as he vigorously shook his head.  “ _Totally_ straight and even if I weren’t, that’d be like sleeping with my brother!  Damn woman, the images you just planted in my head!  Gah!  I need a shot of brain bleach.”

       Karen’s smile was a little truer, and she threaded her arm through Foggy’s as she walked him to the bar.  “You’re worried about him?”

       “I always worry about him.  He hates it, but he hasn’t been able to stop me yet.”

       Josie had left the bottle out and Karen poured one for Foggy and one for herself.  Her hand hesitated for just a second before pouring a third.  “Sam?”

       The young man looked reluctant, but then gratefully surrendered to the call of companionship.  “It’s not more saltwater, is it?”

       “Whiskey,” Foggy corrected.  “Josie’s cheapest, but it’s on the house, so I’m not going to complain that it tastes like turpentine and...”  He took a sip then smacked his lips together as he pondered the flavor, “Tootsie Rolls?”

       Karen held her nose over the shot glass long enough for tears to form and run down her face.  “I detect the subtle hints of ammonia and charcoal.”

       Sam did the same, “Let’s just call it what it is, guys.  We’re drinking donkey piss.”

       “Cheers!”  The blond man raised his glass to his companions.  “What doesn’t kill us will only make us stronger.”

       The words said in jest resonated with Sam.  He saw Karen flinch as well and wondered what secrets she was hiding.  Their eyes met briefly as Foggy bolted down his shot.  Sam gave her a tip of his head and she raised her glass in a miniscule salute to another survivor before they tossed back their drinks, reaching out to balance one another as the potent liquor seared a path down their throats.

       Dean’s jukebox medley finished with _King Nothing_.  The post Metallica silence rang in their ears for several seconds before a new sound began to break through.  Worry showed at the corners of three mouths and three sets of eyes.  The sound repeated itself steadily, almost like a knocking engine, but not as hollow or deep…this was more of a slapping sound, a smack.  Again.  Again.  Again…  Foggy reached for one of the fireplace pokers and Sam took out the gun he’d borrowed from Josie, reminding himself that he needed to get his own back from Dean.  Hearing his brother’s voice crying out in a curse, Sam cast aside stealth and bolted towards the back kitchen, but before he could barge through the door he was met by Turk and Josie who formed a human barrier.  “Dean…!”  Sam attempted to shove past the large black man.

       “Dean’s just fine,” Josie said even as he heard more cursing from behind the door punctuated by the sharp slapping sound.

       “He’s…”

       “Matt!  Fuck!”  Dean’s voice broke through the door.

       Sam pushed against Turk, but at the same time, the gears in his head were turning over the situation.  The regular interval of the slapping noise, the way Dean’s curses seemed to fall into sync with that rhythm, and, now that he was listening with his head and not just his gut, the lack of true distress or panic in his big brother’s shouts…  The look on Josie’s face barely contained her laughter while Turk…the big man looked like he wanted to gouge out his eyes with one of the fireplace pokers…

       Foggy put the pieces together one second faster than Sam:  “Holy shit, are they makin’ babies back there?”

       That…that was an image Sam did not need in his head.  Not expecting the younger hunter to shove himself backwards, Turk lost his hold on Sam and the young man wound up on his ass, quickly scuttling back away from the door like a crab, ramming into Foggy’s legs.  It was a close call, but thankfully, the lawyer was solid enough to keep himself from toppling headfirst onto the floor and into Sam’s lap.  Dean’s cries escalated in volume and pitch and Matt’s voice could be heard pleading with Dean to “take it”.  “Oh No. No. Damnit, Dean!” Sam moaned, his brow furrowed to overhang his narrowed eyes as his lips thinned and turned down at the edges…  Josie didn’t know if the boy was going to shit, puke or lay an egg but she began to laugh so hard she had to cross her legs. 

       Turk took the opportunity to distance himself from the doorway and the sounds behind it, shaking his head.  Foggy looked like someone had slapped him on the back freezing his wide-eyed and open mouthed expression of surprise.  He waited for someone to claim it was all just a joke, that his beloved, scary-intense, stick-up-the-ass best friend was not presently drilling the ass of the scary-beautiful, half-crazy, gun-obsessed, monster-slaying Buffy-boy in the back room of Josie’s bar.  But the punchline never came.  He forgot about the poker in his hand which slipped out of his grasp and landed on Sam’s hand.  Sam gave a yelp and snatched his wounded appendage up fast, unbalancing himself and finally succeeding in knocking over Foggy who managed to tangle himself in a bar stool to stay mostly upright.  Josie decided clean underwear was overrated and let her laughter fill the small bar, her own exorcism against the evil that had invaded her domain.  Karen blinked and couldn’t keep her own giggles from escaping like fizz from a champagne bottle, the stress of the day evaporating at least for a few minutes.

       Josie staggered to the bar and got down a bottle of top shelf tequila, pouring shots all around as Foggy straightened and helped Sam to his feet.  She pulled a roll of quarters out of the cash register and tossed them to Turk.  “Play something loud, and a lot of it.  They’re two healthy boys.  They might be awhile.”

       “Please, stop talking,” Foggy begged. 

       “I just threw up a little into my mouth,” Sam whined.

       Matt’s partner grimaced.  “Fuck.  I saw enough moose vomit last night, I don’t need a repeat performance.”  A series of yelps from Dean made Sam drop his head until his chin hit his chest, his breath hissing in and out through his teeth as he tried in vain not to put an image to the sounds.

       “Is it…” Karen grimaced as her face turned a scalded shade of red.  “Is it supposed to hurt so much?  I mean, why do… _that_ if it doesn’t feel good?”

       Josie howled with laughter all over again as Turk banged his forehead against the jukebox.  “They ain’t doin’ that, sweetheart.  Not yet at least,” Josie wheezed, wiping her eyes with the bar towel.

       “They’re not?”  Foggy’s mouth dropped open like before and Sam raised his head. 

       “Then what…?”  The shaggy blond slapped a palm over the younger Winchester’s mouth.

       “You know what?  We don’t want to know.”

       Sam pried away Foggy’s hand.  “I do,” he demanded grabbing the edge of the bar in a white-knuckled fist.  “That’s my brother he’s hurting.”

       Josie took a deep breath and leveled her best _don’t-mess-with-the-Mama-Bear_ glare at the younger hunter’s _I-know-you-think-I’m-a-horrible-person-but-nobody-gets-to-hurt-my-idiot-brother-but-me_ bitchface.  Foggy whistled the trill from _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_ , but cringed when two equally unamused sets of eyes turned in his direction.  Turning back to Sam, Josie sighed, “Sammy, do you hear the words _help_ , _stop_ or _don’t_ comin’ from that back room?”

       Of course that brought everyone’s attention back to the noises, but they were saved before anyone had to cover their ears by Turk’s frantic entry of his first selection into the jukebox.  There was the tripping scrape of guitar strings followed by the first strident notes of _Voodoo Child_.  He grinned at his own joke.

       “D68,” Josie suggested the next song. 

       “No,” Sam spat out the admission to the woman in plaid like it was something nasty.  “And it’s Sam.  Sammy was a short, chubby kid who lived a long time ago.”

       Josie crossed her arms over her chest, unamused.  “ _Sam_ , how many monsters has your brother killed?”

       Sam’s lips came together in a lemony pucker.  “A lot,” he acknowledged once he managed to pry them apart.

       “You don’t think he can handle himself against one skinny blind lawyer if he wanted to get away?” 

       Foggy was pretty sure that skinny blind lawyer could kick Dean Winchester’s butt…  _Son of a bitch, **that’s** what was going on back there!_   Foggy thought Matt had thrown out all his kinks and gone pure vanilla when he dumped Electra.  It scared the hell out of him more than demons that Dean had resurrected that side of his best friend. 

       Sam’s lips drew together again as the furrows across his forehead deepened.

       “What number is that?”  Karen stage whispered to Foggy, trying to tally the bitchface scorecard.

       “Eighty-seven,” Turk shouted out with a random number eyes never leaving the jukebox.

       “I hate you all,” Sam pouted.

       “He’s kinda cute when he’s pissed,” Karen continued, still speaking in _sotto voce_.  “Maybe you oughta rethink the totally straight thing,” she elbowed Foggy who snapped back from his worries over Matt to find himself not just thrust into the friend-zone by the woman he adored, but the _gay_ friend zone.

       The blond lawyer was quite literally pulled back from the brink of a torrential outburst of self-pity by the bell as the front door opened and everyone turned to face the newcomer with weapons and fireplace pokers in hand.  The diminutive Catholic priest raised his hands and raised an eyebrow as well at the warm welcome.  The fingers of each hand were twisted around the handles of two one-gallon milk jugs as he struggled with the door.

       “Father Lantom,” Karen recognized the priest from Ben Urich’s funeral.  She hurried over to him to help with the jugs.  “Watch your step, we’ve been painting.”

       “Ah, so I take it Matthew and Dean are here?  Matt introduced me to Dean this morning and he told me about his idea for demon-proofing.  I’m delivering the holy water Dean requested.  Four gallons.  If you need more, just let me know.”  He seemed unfazed by the disbelieving stares and the assortment of weaponry.  He glanced around the room spying the tall young man with the too-long hair.  “You must be Dean’s brother, Sam?”  He held out his hand.

       “Um…yeah…uh…yes, sir…uh…father, I mean.”  Sam wiped his palm on his jeans before shaking the man’s hand.  “You met Dean?”

       “Yes.  Your brother came in for confession this morning.  It led to quite a bit more of an experience after Matthew had an encounter with some sort of supernatural creature with an obsession for bees.  And some entity, maybe the archangel himself, shattered our stained glass window of St. Michael.”  The priest set down the two remaining jugs of water and removed his rain jacket before examining the faces peering at him with everything from incredulity to horror to confusion.  “Didn’t they tell you all this?”

       “They were a bit distracted,” Josie hedged.

       “You believe in the supernatural?” Sam gaped.

       The priest smiled at the young man.  “I have to admit your brother, Father Murphy and Robert Singer gave me the quick and dirty version of Monsters 101.  Until then, well, I believed in heaven and hell and demons and angels, but I must say I never expected to actually experience any of those things for a good many years, and even then I thought maybe they were metaphors or anthropromorphisms for something the human brain could never grasp.”  He smiled again, the corners of his eyes creasing into well-established lines.  “Never too old to learn you’ve been a fool, I suppose.”

       Sam blinked and blinked again overwhelmed by guilt upon learning what Dean had really been up to when Sam had accused him of screwing up and screwing around.  Added to the guilt was the shock at the mention of Robert Singer, and, to a lesser extent, the awe that someone else could insert a six syllable word so casually inserted into a conversation.  “Angels aren’t real,” he finally said.  “They can’t be,” he insisted in a smaller voice.

       “Whoa, let’s skip back to the part where Matt was attacked,” Foggy demanded.

       “You’re Matt’s partner, aren’t you?”

       “His law partner.”  After Karen’s not-so-funny joke ( _please, God, let it be a joke_ , Foggy prayed), he was quick to draw the distinction.  “Franklin Nelson.”

       “Foggy,” the priest nodded in recognition.  “Matthew mentions you quite a lot.  You’re a good friend to him.”

       Foggy was not blushing and Karen was not looking at him like he was adorable (Was she?) and therefore making him not-blush all the more.

       “He and Dean didn’t tell you about the attacks?”  The priest looked around the bar as if just noticing the absence of his parishioner and the young hunter.  There was a sudden burst of movement as everyone found something to do and someplace else to look.  He squinted suspiciously trying to make contact with other eyes that skittered away to study the floor or the far corners of the room to avoid his. 

       There was a pause as the jukebox switched over from Jimi Hendrix to The Doors.  In the silence before Jim Morrison sang out _Wild Child_ , there was that rhythmic clap ringing out more sharply than before and Dean’s yelped curse words which ended in a _“Thank you”_ that was practically screeched.

       Immediately all the eyes that had been evading his were turned to Father Lantom, along with red faces and even a few blush tipped red ears, all of them waiting for his response…  “Poor Dean’s not going to have an ass left to sit on.  What lesson is Matthew spanking into his backside this time?”

       That was not what they expected.

       “He’s _spanking_ my brother?” Sam’s red face was part blush, part rage.  “And what do you mean _this time_?”  Unpleasant memories rose to the surface of Sam’s mind of times he hid under a sagging bed, springs tugging at his hair and dust tickling his nose, listening to the sounds of John’s belt, his hands and his fists marking Dean’s skin.  With a fresh dose of demon blood in his system, Sam had mocked Dean with those memories the night before, but with the demon’s influence fading, Sam had to admit that those sounds still haunted the occasional nightmare even when he had been at Stanford.  Not even when he had been fully juiced up had Sam imagined Dean would willingly allow himself to be hurt like that by anyone other than their father whom Dean had never openly defied.  Dean had never done anything to deserve the beatings from John, and he surely didn’t deserve to be hurt by fucking Matt Murdock.  But Josie was right, Dean wasn’t calling out for help, and Sam had no doubt that his brother could fight off one blind ivy-league lawyer.  Which meant Dean wanted whatever it was that was happening to him.  Or it was a price he was willing to pay for the other man’s attention and affection.  Either way, it was a clear indication of how screwed up in the head Dad had made his brother.  Sam had been right to get himself far away from his family as soon as he had been able to go.  He was right to want to leave again.  Dean was weak.  Pathetic…  _Not again._   Sam winced as he once again dug his fingers into the already bruised and aching muscle of his left hand, determined to stop that downward spiral of dark thoughts.

       “You’re okay with this?”  Foggy sputtered, in awe of the priest’s calm demeanor.

       Turk began queuing up more songs for the jukebox and Josie motioned for Karen to take another shot and join her behind the bar to watch the show.  “And bring the pie!” she added, holding up two spoons.

        _Wild child.  Full of grace.  Savior of the human race._  As the music played, a crackle of electricity seemed to race through the air and a gust of wind rattled the windows of the bar as the storm outside began to intensify.

       Father Lantom accepted the shot glass Josie pushed his way and murmured his appreciation before taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.  He tossed back the gulp of the good whiskey (Josie wasn’t one to risk eternal damnation by passing off the turpentine and piss flavored rotgut to a man of God) and gave the matron a smile of thanks.  “I’ll take the easy out, Sam,” he conveyed a quiet authority, but he couldn’t hide the twinkle in his gray eyes as he watched the young man jump like a schoolboy caught daydreaming.  “Since gossip is a sin, you’ll have to ask your brother or Matthew for the details of their relationship…if you truly want them.  Is that what you want?” he asked pointedly, already knowing the answer by the quick change in the color of Sam’s face from red to white.  He then met Foggy’s incredulous gaze and the merriment was gone.  “I take it we both know how hard Matthew works in and _out_ of the courtroom?”  It was a simple statement, but the priest’s eyes were equal parts knowing and questioning.  Foggy didn’t know how he was supposed to react to that disclosure, but the fact that he reacted at all must have been answer enough for Matt’s confessor.  Giving the slightest of nods to acknowledge that they both knew Matt Murdock’s secret, Father Lantom continued, “I heard Matthew laugh this morning and I saw him smile more than once.  How long has it been since you’ve seen the light break through?”  Again, the priest found his answer in whatever he saw on Foggy’s face. 

       Before Jim Morrison gave way to John Lee Hooker, in that brief silence, the sounds of Dean’s pleas and punishment took the spotlight.  The minister inclined his head towards the kitchen with a bit of a mischievous sparkle returning to his eyes, “Plus, Matthew's discovered a way to deal with Dean’s self-destructive tendencies.”   

       “But…Matt…he already ris…works so much…  He’s driven.  And now, demons…  As if there weren’t already enough bad guys in the world.  Matt’s just human.”  And Dean provided a new risk in the form of a new enemy to fight, and a distraction to Matt’s usual focus.  It was a dangerous combination.

       The priest interrupted before the attorney could work up a long-winded argument, “Son, I believe in a God that can kill demons, raise the dead, cure diseases and make the world a perfect place.  But he wants us to do that, to want that, to choose that for ourselves.  He gave us free will.  He wants us to work the miracles.  But I believe he watches, he cares, he cheers for us, and he helps us along.  Matthew and Dean both get something good from whatever this is they’ve found.  If it helps them fight the darkness inside, I’ve got to think it will help them fight the monsters that threaten us all – human or supernatural.  If what they have is a good thing, I’ve got to believe God had a hand in it, and who am I to tell God he made a mistake.”

       “Never thought I’d hear a sermon preached under this roof.  Least not one I liked.  To Team Free Will.”  Josie poured the man another top-shelf shot.  He raised the glass to her, their eyes meeting over the top as they gave each other a nod of respect.

       Foggy rubbed his hands through his hair, “I think I like my God a little less subtle.  Some writing on the wall telling us what to do or a nice holy hand grenade guaranteed to kill hell spawn would be appreciated right now.”

       “Amen, brother,” Turk agreed, more faith in gunpowder than a benevolent God.

       Sam couldn’t help thinking of Jess and wondering where her help had been and where his was now that she was gone.  Dean.  The answer came to him in a word.  Without his big brother over these last months…  He could feel the demon’s influence, the rage and vitriol trying to take over in retaliation for his kind thought, but now the evil curling through his veins was merely leftover threads unraveled from the blanket that had smothered him the night before.  He pressed his fingers deep into the spot on his left hand.  Long hair had its benefits, forming a curtain to hide his eyes and the tears gathering at the corners.  _Eye sweat_ , a voice in his subconscious that sounded like Dean corrected Sam’s mistake, making the younger brother’s cheeks dimple with a genuine smile as he wiped away the offending moisture with his sleeve.   

       Karen wasn’t drunk enough for this conversation, but likewise she feared she was too drunk not to let her own secrets slip.  Covering a mouthful of gooey pie with her hand, she took the opportunity to change the subject.  “Back to the attack.  Was Matt hurt?”

       “We don’t know.  Matthew can tell us that _he_ doesn’t think it was an attack, though he certainly seemed shaken.  He wasn’t injured…not physically…but…” he frowned.

       “But what?” Foggy demanded.

       “When he tries to describe what happened, he can’t say the words.  It’s as if the creature knows what Matthew’s doing and stops him, forcing him to recite trivia about honeybees instead of saying what he intended.”

       The soft tones of Hendrix’s _The Wind Cries Mary_ were unable to hide the now unmistakable sound of Matt _still_ spanking Dean.  _And making a damn thorough job of it.  Shit._   Sam wasn’t the only one squirming in his seat in sympathy.  Sam wondered why he hadn’t put two and two together before the priest did…of course, when Dean was part of the equation, numbers never added up the way they were supposed to.  Like for instance…  “Honeybees?”  Everyone but the priest was looking at him expectantly.  “I’ve never heard of a supernatural creature that did anything like that.”  He chewed on his lip as his brain began to compute the data.  “Maybe a trickster?  But there’s usually a motivation behind their pranks and Matt’s not the type to go around pulling the wings off unsuspecting insects, is he?”  _Cause if he is, I’m gonna storm into that back room and rescue my stupid brother_ , was the message conveyed by an expression far too ferocious to be termed a bitchface.           

       “No, he’s not,” the man in black assured Sam, obviously having already examined the possible supernatural suspects with Dean and the older hunters.  “Mr. Singer and Father Murphy were equally confused.  It doesn’t fit the pattern of any creature they’ve ever encountered.  Matthew came up with a theory…”

       Sam scoffed.  “I’ve grown up with the supernatural, Matt’s known about the bogeyman for a day.  Forgive me if I don’t place much stock in his theories.  It sounds more like one of Dean’s pranks.”  _It did, didn’t it?  That son of a bitch._   This time Sam didn’t feel guilty when he let the demonic influence take over.  “Who knows what Dean’s capable of without Dad to keep him toeing the line?”

       Father Lantom put on the same expression that had cowed Dean earlier that day.  “Do you mind if I continue?”

       Having received far fewer paddlings than Dean during his school career, the look didn’t strike the same level of foreboding into the younger brother and Sam didn’t dial back the attitude.  He made a showy bow along with a _be-my-guest_ gesture…  Josie promptly whacked the back of his head.  “Demon blood or no, you show a little respect, boy.” 

       Turk snickered but quickly raised his hands in surrender when the bar owner turned her hazel glare of promised retribution upon him.  He fed more quarters into the Wurlitzer.

       “In the information Robert Singer faxed to Dean there was an image of the Zoroastrian god Mithra.  Coincidentally, Mithra is the god represented by the amulet Dean wears.  Coincidentally, Mithra is the god with the power to defeat daeva.  Coincidentally," the gray haired man repeated, "Mithra’s job description practically mirrors Michael the Archangel’s.”  _And, coincidentally, Mithra’s green eyes and golden skin littered with a thousand eyes like freckles mirrors Dean himself:_ the priest kept that information to himself, not yet quite sure what to make of it, but realizing it was one more coincidence that seemed too coincidental.  “Coincidentally, the stained glass window depicting Michael slaying the devil mysteriously shattered this morning…from inside the church.  According to Father Murphy, very few demons have the power to enter hallowed ground, and none of those demons need daevas to do their dirty work.”

       “Bobby and Pastor Jim really buy this angel theory?” Sam was excited to hear that Dean had reconnected with the man who was once like a second father, but thinking about Uncle Bobby brought back even more painful memories.

       “They haven’t ruled it out.  Neither of them are big believers in coincidence and I'm sure you agree that there are a few too many of those to ignore.”

       “That doesn’t mean it was an angel,” Sam snorted dismissively.  He and the priest continued their debate, finally reaching not an agreement but a truce in order to begin discussing the exorcism ritual while the others moved tables, chairs and bar stools out of the way to create a space for the devil’s trap.

       Brett Mahoney joined them shortly thereafter, eyes bloodshot and haunted by the images of the crime scene he couldn’t forget.  He’d already told his grandmother to go stay with her sister in Connecticut until he gave her the word that it was safe to return to the city.  Like the priest, since he had stepped over the line of salt infused paint, he was given a pass on the shot of demon’s bane.  Josie pulled a beer from the tap and placed it in front of him.  “On the house, kiddo.  You look like you need it.”  She gestured to the man in black.  "Father Lantom is Matt's priest.  He and Dean recruited him for the party." 

       Brett gave the priest and the younger Winchester a tilt of the head, and Josie a quirk of the lips he hoped passed as a smile, not ready for questions or introductions.  He drank two pints before he raised his head, glancing around like he was waking from a dream and reacquainting himself with his surroundings.  “Murdock and the brat still AWOL?  I got a call that they stopped by the motel.  Does anyone else think there’s somethin’ goin’ on there?”

       “Oh, you’ve got some catching up to do,” Foggy slapped him on the back and took the chair beside the detective.  Josie slid a slice of pie in front of the young man as Turk and Karen joined them.  

       Sam broke off his conversation with the priest to turn to the bar for another drink, fumbling with his shot glass in horror at the sight that greeted him:  “You’re eating Dean’s pie!  He’s gonna shit!”

       Karen swallowed guiltily.  Foggy dropped his spoon.  But Mahoney was recovered enough to lick his with a playful leer, unaware of the very real danger he faced.  “That boy can walk down the street and get himself another pie.” 

       Sam declined the offered spoon Josie extended.  “Yeah, I’ll let you tell him that while I go stand way the fuck over there to avoid the blood spatter when the heads begin to roll.”

       Being a con man, Turk knew when he was being sold oceanfront property in Indiana.  He decided Sam was serious.  “On second thought…”  He put his spoon down.  “I prefer cake.”  Foggy began to cluck like a chicken to show his opinion of the big man’s unwillingness to indulge in the stolen pie.

       There was a sound like the crack of ice underfoot that produced both dread and panic.  Foggy stopped clucking and started choking as he dropped his spoon again.  Sam leaped to his feet, chair falling to the floor, and snatched up the nearest fireplace poker.  Turk reached for his gun.  A second crack was accompanied by a choked off cry from Dean that not even the enthusiastic funk of James Brown could overpower.  “Sounds like the grand finale,” Josie said cheerfully as the others groaned and stowed their weapons.

       “The first one to make a crack about a happy ending…” Mahoney grumbled, but he was grinning and the grin didn’t fade as he was pelted with groans and a barrage of spoons.

       Turk happily twisted the cop’s ear, “Man, there’s a priest here!”

       “So what?  I’m Baptist.”  He gave Father Lantom a wink.

       “We’ll see what your granny says,” Turk threatened.

       Brett winced, “Now that’s just fighting dirty.  Besides, you’re the one who included _Sexual Healing_ on the playlist for a spanking.”

       “I thought _Hot Pants_ was rather clever,” the priest shrugged, his dry tone undermined by his smirk.  “I’ve given up quite a bit to become a man of God, but he did let me keep my sense of humor.”

       Another CRACK was followed by Dean’s screech of “Three!”

       Karen’s blue eyes were huge.  “I’m not quite as heartbroken as I was an hour ago.”

       Now Mahoney’s eyes went wide, “You and Murdock?”

       “No!”  Karen protested.  “It never happened.”  She looked to Foggy for back-up.

       Confused, Brett looked at long-haired lawyer too.  “You and Murdock?”

       “What?  No!”  Foggy rolled his eyes.  _Crap, did everyone think he had a thing for his friend._   “Matt and I were roommates, not lovers.  And no he never checked out your ass, Mahoney.  Don’t even go there.”

       “You sayin’ there’s somethin’ wrong with my ass?”

       “Blind. Man.”  Turk rolled his eyes.  “I thought cops were supposed to be smart?”

       The young detective gave the criminal’s joke a one-finger rating.  “Man, it’s been a shitty day.  The things I saw…”  He shook his head, suddenly looking years older.  “Gotta take my laughs where I can.”  He scraped the bottom of the pie pan with a finger and put it in his mouth.  “Eating Winchester’s pie helps too.”

       CRACK.  “Four!”

       “Jesus,” the cop shuddered.  “I never knew Murdock was such a kinky bastard.”

       Father Lantom cleared his throat suggestively.

       “Sorry, Father.”  Okay, even Baptists could be intimidated by the men in black.

       Josie looked at Turk with a predatory gleam.  “Since we’re all thinkin’ about Dean’s bottom…”

       “EWWW,” Sam moaned.  “I’m trying not to, please.”

       “Can we all agree Matt’s the top?”  There were more groans and Turk grumbled as he fished ten dollars out of his wallet and handed it the gloating woman.

       “You put money on Dean in that deal?”  Mahoney’s look of betrayal was so real Josie could almost believe Turk was pulling the cash out of the cop’s wallet.

       CRACK.

       “How much longer?” Sam buried his head in his arms.

       “Son of a bitch kills monsters for a living,” Turk defended his gamble to Brett.  “And you were the one warning us all about his criminal record...which is longer than mine, by the way.”

       There was a sound like the pop of a champagne cork, a sound completely foreign to the rough and dirty little dive.  A stench began to work its way through the room.  “Is that a demon?” Foggy’s voice was muffled by the hand he held over his mouth and nose.

       “Worse,” Josie informed him, straightening up from where she was hidden below the counter and setting the Tupperware container on top before replacing the lid.  “This is the magic potion you and Sam put together.  The gas must have built up and it just blew its top.”

       “Did we do it right?”

       The priest peeled off the lid and peered into the container at the silver bowl on the bottom.  “I’d say so.”  His voice was raspy as he tried to speak while holding his breath. 

       “That ain’t right,” Turk insisted.  “Smells worse than shit.”

       “If it were easy, there’d be no value to drinking it,” the priest advised.  “According to Mr. Singer, once the words of the ritual are spoken, Mithra uses the potion to select his champion.” 

       “Like a test?” Karen asked and Sam nodded.

       “Are you fu-uhdging kidding me?” Foggy narrowly avoided the curse word that would have earned him a steely-eyed reprimand from the priest.  “We’ve put all our eggs in this basket, and now you’re telling me it might not work?”

       “It’s not just the potion that needs to be right, it’s the vessel,” Sam explained.

       “I thought we’d just use one of Josie’s glasses.  You mean we need a magic cup now too?  Like the friggin’ Holy Grail?”

       “No.  The vessel is the human, the one who drinks the potion.  I think the ritual refers to him as the Righteous Man.”  He moved his gaze to Josie and Karen.  “The ritual’s words, not mine,” he apologized.  “But when you’re dealing with magic, that’s one of those things that can make a difference.”

       “If that means Karen and I don’t have to drink this hopped-up rotten god juice, I think we’re perfectly okay with that.”

       “Perfectly,” Karen echoed Josie, her head bobbing like it was on a spring.

       Foggy feigned disapproval.  “Ladies, I’m disappointed.  What would Gloria Steinem say?”  Turk elbowed the lawyer to silence the banter.  He was listening intently with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

       Sam nodded his thanks to the man as he continued.  “Drinking the potion prepares the Righteous Man to be used by the god as his weapon against the daeva.”

       Mahoney tried to wave away the miasma of stink in the air.  “You told me it’s fermented goat milk laced with drugs.  This Mithra wants his champion to be puking his guts up on a psychedelic roller coaster ride?”

       Sam looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat.  “Maybe?  Think of it as purged and pliant.  Or empty and open.”

       “To be filled with what?” Turk wisely deducted the important question.

       Sam gave a wave of his hands, “Mithra’s will?  His power?  His gifts?  His presence?”

       “Gifts?  What gifts?”  Foggy was eager to find the upside to this arrangement.

       “The potion wasn’t just used for exorcisms.  It could be used before battle or as part of fertility rituals.  If the god chose, he could gift the vessel with military or sexual prowess, an abundant herd or harvest, a male child, the ability to control demons…”

       “Oooookay.  I kinda left those items off my Christmas list.” Foggy leaned back.  He wasn’t the only one.  For the moment, no one was joking.

       Brett opened his mouth, but when nothing but a squeak came out, his skin darkened in a blush.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “So, what’s the plan?  Should we all drink?  Should we draw straws or ask for volunteers or take a vote?”

       “I don’t think you should all take that risk,” Josie cautioned. 

       “Yeah,” Sam agreed.  He quickly looked back at his hands, knotted together on top of the research and print-outs.  “If we were gonna put an FDA label on the package, the small print would also include the chance of insanity, insatiable appetite, death, and…uh…murderous rage.”  The younger Winchester’s shoulders sagged under the burden he carried.  “That rules me out.  Meg’s blood will probably be out of my system by the time the potion is ready, but that’s a chance I don’t want to take.  I don't want to hurt anyone.”

       Father Lantom put a gentle hand on Sam’s forearm.  “It’s Dean.  He's the vessel.”  The priest made it clear this was not just his vote but a statement of fact.  Another electrical surge made the air tingle as lightning struck someplace close.

       “That’s not fair!  The kid’s not here to defend himself.”  Surprisingly, it was Mahoney who voiced the objection.

       Josie clapped the young man across the shoulders.  “Ahhhh, you do like him!”

       “Shut up.”  The detective shrugged off Turk’s arm.  “Believe me, I’m not wantin’ to be the one, I’m just sayin’ Dean oughta get a say before we make him play Russian Roulette with some magic potion.”

       “Knowing Dean, it hasn’t even crossed his mind that it won’t be him,” Sam gave a small smile with a hint of the exasperated fondness that preceded Meg’s appearance.

       “Matt might have something to say about that.”  Josie glanced purposefully towards the kitchen and they all paused, taking in the silence…  That meant…

       “Are they done?” Sam asked hopefully.

       “With the foreplay,” Josie smirked.

       Foggy pointed at her, “You are evil.”

       Josie’s smile was older than Eve and just as wily, “Won’t be the worst thing that ever happened in that kitchen.  I could tell you stories…”

       “Please don’t!”  Everyone but the priest and the bar matron scurried to occupy themselves elsewhere.

       “Don’t you want to know why you can’t drink my water?” Josie called out.

       “Nope.”

       “Not really!”

       “Ignorance is bliss!”

       “Wait!  I’m not supposed to drink the water?”

       Josie and the priest shared another shot once they stopped laughing, watching the younger generations begin to draw out the design for the devil’s trap in the space they’d cleared earlier.  She offered another but the man shook his head.  “You up for this fight, old man?” She tried to hide her genuine concern behind a gruff exterior.

       “It’s not what I ever thought I would be doing, but I’m not running.  If this is a fight against hell, this is where I’m meant to be.”

       “We ain’t the most saintly allies.”

       “You’d be surprised.”  His smile was as warm as the whiskey and felt just as good.

       “Stop tryin’ to convert me,” she warned with a wave of her bar towel.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I'm my own worst critic and hate to let anything go that I'm not completely satisfied with and I know this could be so much better, but it's probably best that I let it go because I had so many drafts and revisions on my computer I was starting to get them all confused. Thanks for your patience, and thanks for all the comments and kudos!!! Y'all are wonderful, I hope I haven't disappointed you!  
> *****  
> In case you've forgotten where we left off... Dean and Matt have yet to return from the back of the bar.

Chapter 19

 

       Matt suddenly found his path back to the bar blocked by an immovable object. 

       “What do you mean:  they could hear us?”  Dean’s voice cracked with something that was most certainly _not_ panic.  (Yeah, right.)  They couldn’t have heard the sounds of his spanking.  Could they?  Come on, there was a door, and a hallway, and a friggin’ jukebox playing…  Currently, it was playing Nazareth’s rendition of _Love Hurts_.  Son of a bitch.  They’d heard…and they were _already_ giving him shit about it!  _Thank God that bratty detective wasn’t there._

       “Mahoney’s here now.”

       “Shit!”

       “And Father Lantom.”

       “The hell?!”

       “They heard too.” 

       Matt missed the show as Dean’s face contorted into an almost cartoonish expression of wide-eyed horror, but the juvenile whine was enough to make him smile fondly.  Dean performed a speedy about-face and tried to slip past Matt to retreat back to the kitchen.  Of course, the blind man’s strength and freakin’ superpowers made it easy for him to snatch Dean’s arm and prevent his get-away.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

       “Let me go, damnit,” Dean complained, trying desperately to pull his arm free even though the feel of Matt’s strong battle worn hand holding him fast sent a sharp spike of want right through him.  “I’m not goin’ back out there!  They heard.  _Sam_ heard.”  Sam heard him whining like a bitch in heat, begging like a whore on Spanish fly, getting his ass blistered like a juvenile delinquent in the principal’s office.  Worse, Sam knew his big brother let it happen…and that he’d liked it.  A lot.  Hell, they all knew now.  There may as well have been a neon sign over his head with a flashing arrow announcing to the world that Dean Winchester was a twisted piece of cheap ass.  _Thank God, Dad left town..._   Shit, Dean still needed to warn Elkins that John Winchester was coming for the Colt.

       “Good.”

       Matt’s confident response to Dean’s panic jerked the hunter back to the present moment like he’d been snagged by a meat hook.  “What?” Dean yelped, certain now that the blind-superpowered-lawyer-ninja was also insane.  “It’s not good!  Nothing about it is good!” 

       Matt kept a tight hold of Dean’s wrist, feeling a painful kind of smug guilt about the bruises he would leave behind.  His other hand was gentler, coming to rest warm and reassuring on the back of the younger man’s neck as his thumb rubbed soothingly over that indentation under Dean’s ear, behind the corner of his jaw.  The hunter was the one to tilt his head forward until their foreheads touched.  “No more hiding, baby.” 

       “I wasn’t hiding.”  The lie came out too fast to be believed even by someone without Daredevil’s abilities.  The heat from that hand on his neck worked its way down his spine and followed the curve of his ribs, moving slow and sweet as molasses to pool in his belly.  Damnit, Matt’s hands were magic.  Dean pressed into Matt's grip on his neck, not wanting Matt to let go. 

       Never loosening his hold on the hunter, Matt rolled his eyes behind his tinted glasses.  “Really, Dean?  You’re still trying to lie to me?”  He heard the dry click of Dean’s sudden swallow.  Even though his hands were a Catholic school rulebook approved distance above Dean’s ass, the way the hunter clenched his butt cheeks in anticipation of another spanking, echoed throughout his body for Matt’s fingertips to hear.  “You ran back here in the first place because you saw me talking to Karen,” Matt answered his own question, knowing it would likely take another round of _persuasion_ with the wooden spoon before Dean would make such an admission.  “Who did I choose, Dean?”

       “I don’t deserve…”

       Matt’s grip on Dean’s neck tightened threateningly.  “Finish that sentence, Dean Winchester, and I’ll flip you over my knee in front of them all and let them watch instead of just listen.”  Dean had no doubts that Matt would do it (and damn if his traitorous dick didn’t find that sexy as hell).  “Who did I choose?”

       “Me,” Dean whispered, still unbelieveing, eyes focused on the faded Metallica logo of Matt’s borrowed t-shirt.

       “Louder, and look at me when you say it.”  He had to hide his smile as he heard Dean’s breath stutter in response to the command.

       “How did you know where I was looking?”

       “Dean.”  The soft-spoken authority of Matt’s voice alone was enough to make Dean’s knees wobble.  A sensation like the prickling tickle of fear raising the hairs on the back of his neck swept across his ass instead.

       “Me.”  Dean’s voice was a fraction louder.

       “Say it again, Dean.  Who did I choose?”

       “Me.  You chose me.”  Dean looked away from Matt’s eyes, long lashes fanning over freckled skin.  “I choose you too…you know.  In case you were wondering.”

       "Not wondering, baby.  Hoping."

       Ten minutes later, Dean was gnawing on his own knuckle to keep quiet, his other hand bracing himself against the wall.  Matt was biting into Dean’s shoulder, one arm wrapped around the younger man’s torso with a hand splayed open over his taut midsection.  His other arm had also snaked its way under Dean’s t-shirt to torture his sensitive nipples, making the hunter choke back whines and whimpers as he twisted and writhed all the while providing glorious friction for Matt’s fully clothed dick which was rutting against the hunter’s regrettably still fully clothed ass.

       Dean’s moans escalated in volume as he pulled his raw knuckle out from between his teeth.  “Damnit to fuck, Matt, just fuckin’ fuck me already,” he hissed.  “Want to be full of you, babe.”

       Matt’s fingernails scratched over Dean’s chest, and over the pebbled flesh of a nipple before seizing it between his fingers, stretching it until Dean gasped out a curse and snapping his fingers with the tender nub caught in between.  Dean clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle his shout as he pushed back against Matt’s cock, meeting the blind man’s thrusts.  "Please.  Please, Matt.  Oh, God.  Want you," Dean begged, followed by a pitiful whine.  

       “Fuck,” Matt growled, powerless to stop as both hands moved to Dean’s hips, holding the hunter steady as he fucked against the man, pounding him hard enough to jar their teeth.  “DeanDeanDean,” he chanted.  “D-Dean,” Matt gasped.  He was going to…  “Jesus Dean!  I’m…  I can’t!  Fuck!  I’m…”  Back bowed and hips convulsing, he bit into Dean’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood.

       Once Matt’s grip on him loosened, Dean spun around with a chuckle full of confidence and dark mischief, his own need now was nowhere near as important as the answer to his question:  “So…Did what I think just happened really happen?”

       “That depends on whether or not you’re thinking I just jizzed in my pants,” Matt hedged, embarrassed that he’d lost control.  “Christ, I haven’t done that in ten years.”  Dean had to laugh as his superhero made a face and groaned.  “How much are you gonna gloat?” 

       “Damn, Matt, that was hot.”  Matt could feel the younger man’s erection against his thigh, and the grin as Dean nuzzled his neck.  “That was also the last pair of clean underwear between us.”  The older man’s complaint was quickly lost in a burst of Dean’s laughter.  “I’m awesome!”  He wiggled his crotch against Matt’s in a happy shimmy made even better, in Dean’s opinion, by the rasp of denim against his still throbbing backside.

       “Yes, you are.”  Matt decided that having his exhausted penis crushed into the front of underwear filled with his sticky and rapidly cooling release was positively worth it so long as he could bask in the giddy joy that was radiating off his hunter.  "You want...?"  He offered.

       "Oh, I want," Dean assured him.  "And you're gonna give it to me later."  He leaned in towards Matt for a kiss made uncoordinated by laughter, causing teeth to click together painfully and leading to even more laughter until Matt caught the sound of Dean smothering a yawn.  He gave sloppy smooch to Dean’s cheek in lieu of chipping a tooth.  

       With a pat to Dean’s sore bottom, Matt smiled fondly at his hunter.  “Really.  Why won’t you take a nap?”

       Dean shook his head, his lower lip sticking out childishly as he protested the idea of naptime.  “I said I’d paint the devil’s trap.  I want to get it done before it gets much later.  ‘Sides, I told you ‘m not tired.”  His eyes squinted and cheeks twitched as he held back another yawn.   

       Matt knew better than to argue with the little liar.  "Okay.  You go on.  I'll clean up and be out in a minute."

       Dean was suddenly wide-awake.  "Fuck no.  I'm not makin' the walk of shame by myself, dude.  We're doin' this together."

       That struck Matt with an idea.  “My marks are all over you, baby.  Before we go back out there, put your claim on me.  I want it.  And I want you to see it and remember:  I’m yours too.”  Matt treasured the barely there squeak of surprise followed by the quickening thud of Dean’s heart and a soft gasp of awe.  He easily imagined big green eyes lit up with flecks of gold like bulbs on the Christmas tree he and his father used to put up for the holidays. 

       Marks on Dean were nothing new.  He had worn the bruises from various johns and one-night stands like scarlet letters, the proof of his sins written onto his flesh.  Matt was the first to make the bites and bruises he left behind something more than a reminder of Dean’s shame.  The violet bloom Matt had sucked onto Dean’s neck was a symbol of pleasure, promise and possession to the lawyer who made it.  It wasn’t carelessly or cruelly made, and Dean was reminded of that every time the blind man lingered over the spot when his sensitive fingers searched it out; every time those magic eyes of his found that small blossom of heat and a smile graced his lips; every time Matt stated his claim, the word _“Mine”_ tumbling from his mouth.  Now he was offering Dean the same privilege.  No one had ever done that before.

       "Hell yeah!"  Dean surged forward, kissing and whispering his thanks to Matt’s lips. 

       “I’m yours,” was Matt’s repeated reply.  “From the moment Josie sat you down beside me.”  He surprised himself when he realized it was true.  And worried.  He was way too attached, way too fast.  He shoved that aside; for now, soothing Dean’s insecurity was more important. 

       Dean kissed his way along the angle of a jaw darkened by the shadow of a beard.  He smiled at the hiss he caused by a sharp nip to Matt’s earlobe.  His teeth grazed the skin as he moved lower, finding the spot he wanted to claim.  His breath ghosted over Matt’s neck like a warm breeze tinged with the scent of summer.  Dean pushed back his anxiety over what the others had heard and what they thought about him.  None of that mattered for the moment because Matt wanted him.  Even more, Matt wanted to belong to him too.  At least until the bruise faded, so Dean was gonna make it a good one.  His tongue swirled over a spot below and slightly in front of Matt’s left ear, tasting the skin, feeling the heat and the rapid beat of Matt’s own pulse.  “Mine, Murdock,” he growled into a sensitive ear, empowered by the older man’s shiver and the prickle of goosebumps tickling his tongue. 

       “Do it.”  The collar of Dean's worn t-shirt ripped as Matt grabbed it in his fist and tugged the hunter close.  He tilted his head in invitation and Dean accepted.  Dean bit down hard, sealing his mouth to the spot and sucking blood to the surface of the skin as he manhandled the dark haired man, pushing him against the wall for leverage.  Dean’s hand knotted in Matt’s hair and he forced the lawyer’s head to twist even farther, giving him greater access.

       Matt was startled by the near feral noise that tore out of his own throat as his very soul protested the loss of control.  Powerful hands gripped Dean by the shoulders, every instinct telling Matt to shove the hunter away, but instead he pulled the younger man even closer.  He wanted this.  Both men grunted in discomfort as Dean’s amulet dug into their skin, but neither pulled back.  Crimson beads of blood clung to the sharp horns of the bronze head before they were seemingly absorbed into the magical artifact.  The amulet began to glow, a molten yellow that went unnoticed by the two men whose focus was…elsewhere.  Until it began to burn. 

       There was a flood as the wall cracked.  The wall Matt had carefully constructed around himself to remain sane flickered and disappeared like an illusion, and there was no filter, nothing between Matt and all the noise and light and scent and noise andmotionandsensationandnoiseNOISE **NOISEANDPAIN**.  

       Matt was on fire inside and out.  He was raw.  He was drowning.  He was too hot and too cold and…it was too much.  The air was screaming and thrumming around him.  He was going to die.  He was going to…  He clenched his teeth so tight his jaw creaked.  Desperately, Matt tried to regain the reins of control that had slipped from his grasp, moving Dean like he was a rag doll, slamming him against the wall like he was an enemy.  It was too late.  The crack gave way, the wall shattered and a tidal wave of stimulation broke over Matt’s head, smashing him open against the rocks.  He could feel the squeeze of his own heart as it beat, the elastic stretch and release of every vessel as blood like lava coursed through his body.  Every nerve ending fired, feeling like the sting of a million bees jacked up on electricity.  Fire raced down his spine and out… 

       Matt screamed…

       Dean was screaming too.

*****

       “Dean!”  There was a sickening crack as Sam and Brett Mahoney hit the door to the back of the bar only to learn the hard way that it wasn’t going to budge.  Picking themselves off the floor as the others approached more carefully, the two men both pushed and pulled against the door again with no better results.

       “What’s happening to them?” Karen demanded as the two men on the opposite side of the door continued to scream in agony.

       “I don’t know,” the younger Winchester snapped, watching as a golden glow outlined the edges of the door as if a floodlight were on the other side.  The door was quickly becoming hot to the touch, causing Foggy to jerk his hand away with a curse.

       The golden light wasn’t normal, the others didn’t need Sam’s expertise to know that.  As it seeped through the cracks in the door, it wasn’t confined by physics, it moved like liquid, filling the space entirely, leaving behind strange markings on the floors and walls.  Sigils.  Some Sam recognized, others were new.  The devil’s trap they had planned was there too, right where Dean had intended to place it, lines etched in sunlight yellow.

       “You had to ask for writing on the wall,” Turk breathlessly reminded Foggy.

       “I changed my mind,” the blond lawyer whimpered.  "Hear that, God?" 

       Tendrils of light circled Sam like kamikaze fireflies, darting this way and that to avoid swipes of his huge hands.  When the young man was surrounded the glow intensified, causing the others to look away and Sam’s panicked and pain-filled cry joined with the incessant screaming behind the immovable door.  Looking down at his arms, Sam could see a black mist rising from his skin and turning golden as it rose upwards before disappearing into the air.  He hadn’t realized how much he was still tainted by Meg’s blood until he saw it physically leave his body and felt the vice-like grip on his psyche give way.  As the poison left him, the pain ebbed, which didn’t explain why Dean and Matt were still howling in agony.  What was going on behind the door?

       With dread, Josie watched the strange invasion of light make over her bar with supernatural graffiti.  She whimpered in distress when Grandmother Josie’s form appeared, highlighted by the molten aura.  As if she was heard, her grandmother met her eyes with a smile before giving what Josie swore was a sigh of relief.  The ghost turned her eyes heavenward, reaching up to the sky like a child seeking to be picked up. 

       "I do believe in ghosts. I do believe in ghosts. I do.  I do.  I do."  Foggy had resorted to channeling the cowardly lion as he watched.  Karen and Brett clutched Sam unsure whether they were helping him recover or seeking his protection.

       Like Sam, the apparition was surrounded by a shower of sparks before dissolving into mist that dissipated into the air.  A sigh like a benediction smelling of her grandmother’s perfume raised the hair on Josie’s arms and she knew her grandmother was capital _G_ gone now and wouldn’t be coming back.  Strangely, though, Josie felt at peace with the loss, knowing her grandmother wouldn’t have left unless Josie herself and the bar her grandmother had loved were safe.  She felt a pressure against her side and let herself be drawn into Turk’s arms.

       As if trapped in the underwater sensation of a dream, Father Lantom observed his first undeniable encounter with the supernatural.  He watched the golden light advance and then retreat back behind the door where Matt and Dean were trapped.  Filled with a mix of awe and terror, he watched it exorcise the demon blood from the younger Winchester, carry away a ghost, and fill empty spaces with fiery art that inexplicably made the priest feel safe enough that the tension he’d been carrying since Dean Winchester and Matt Murdock had walked into his office and started talking about demons had disappeared.  Still, behind the door, the superhero and the hunter were being tortured.  It made no sense:  if the light was good, why was it hurting them?

*****

       As the overwhelming presence of the golden glow retreated, Matt thought he knew what was happening.  He’d worry about the why, later.  What he was feeling…it was impossible…it was…  He remembered waking in a hospital bed shortly after the accident that had taken his sight and given him his powers.  He remembered the visceral agony that came from experiencing the unfiltered world, unable to keep anything out, unable to focus on any one thing.  He’d screamed for hours.  He’d screamed until he had passed out and then he screamed when he woke again.  He’d screamed until he began to build the wall, began to teach himself how to control his power and hold back the painful flood of over-stimulation.  Somehow his wall, his shield, had come down.

       Knowing the problem now, Matt took a deep breath and began to focus.  Dean.  Where was he?  He’d probably terrified the younger man with his sudden screams.  Who knew how long he had been like this?  Minutes?  Hours?  The others had to be just as scared?  Matt tried to find the hunter, tried to pick out his scent, the heat of his body, the sound of his heartbeat and voice and breath…  The smell of Dean came to him first:  blackberries, bay leaves, daisies and sunshine.  He’d almost forgotten that the smell had belonged to an angel first…or maybe a god.  Dean’s real scent was…  Why was it so hard to remember?  Matt let himself breathe in deeply the scent of summer, growling when he realized there was ozone in the air.  They weren't alone.  He had to regain control, had to be ready to fight, ready to protect Dean.  Matt's scream turned into a roar as he fought a battle in his own head.  But there was something else…something that wouldn’t let him relax, wouldn’t let him rebuild his wall without being allowed inside.  It was a pressure…no, a presence in his consciousness.  It wasn’t something he could _feel_ , it was _feelings_ …emotions.  And they weren’t his own.  He couldn’t shut it out…pain, panic, distress, fear, rage.  So similar to what he was feeling, but not his…more like a mirror image.  That’s when bile began to burn the back of his throat.  Dean.

       Once Matt stopped fighting the intrusion, his wall snapped back into place.  It took a few moments to reorient himself to his surroundings, he was still in the dank hallway connecting Josie’s bar to the kitchen; the stairwell leading to her apartment located behind another closed door in front of him; the floor beneath him cold and tacky; the air smelling of stale beer, sweat and panic, ozone and Dean.  He heard the voices of the others and the slap of skin pounding against the wood of the door that separated them.  He was much slower to realize that the constant ringing in his ears was a scream coming from a form huddled in the corner, a form he couldn’t sense by heat because the heat was everywhere, but there was a (too fast) heartbeat and the scrape of skin, hair and cloth against plaster.  “Dean?”  Matt’s voice was barely a whisper, his own throat raw from his own screaming.  “Baby?”  The pressure in his head shifted slightly and Matt felt relief, his own and Dean’s, wash over him before the bond went silent, the screaming stopped and the hunter slumped over.  “Dean!”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thanks so much for your patience and concern!

Chapter 20

 

       Matt awoke to find himself tangled around the unconscious hunter…the warm, pliant, sweet-smelling man who murmured something incoherent, in response to the kiss Matt placed upon his neck, the tension in Dean's shoulders melting away as swiftly as ice cream under a summer sun as he returned to peaceful sleep with deep even breaths.  The rough scratch of a thin cotton pillowcase against Matt’s cheek was an effective dose of reality…this was not his bed.  Recovering from the Goldilocks moment, Matt bolted upright and attempted to shield the sleeping hunter from the others he instantly realized were in the room.

       “Easy, buddy,” Foggy said softly in the tone of voice that let Matt know that once again his friend thought he had come near death…the shouting would come later.

       “That bad, huh?” Matt croaked from his raw throat.

       “Worse,” Foggy promised.  “If it’s any consolation, this time it’s not your fault.”

       “So no shouting?”

       The blond attorney cracked a hint of a smile at the hope in his friend’s voice.  “No shouting."  His index finger made a cross over his heart.

       “So…uh…Matt…”  Sam struggled for an easy way to broach the subject, but gave up and dove in.  “What happened?  We heard…um…” he reached a giant paw up to rub the back of his neck, giving away the discomfort he was trying to hide.  “You know…we heard you…and Dean…heard you…you know…um…”  He lowered his voice as if afraid of revealing a secret:  “…spankhim.”  Sam cursed every supernatural being in existence for forcing him to utter that sentence.

       “You want to know why?”

       “No!”  The two other men shouted loudly.

       Matt scowled at them, hissing like a possessed librarian before leaping from the bed and making a show of fumbling his way towards them to push them out the door in front of him.  “Keep your voices down!” He studied the room like a mother hen and confirmed that Dean’s breathing was still deep and steady, then shut the door, turning to face Sam and Foggy.  “How long have I been out?”

       “About three hours,” Foggy confirmed.  “We’ve been scared to death, but Mahoney assured us that you were both alive and that you probably didn’t have brain damage, and with Meg and her daeva still on the loose, and Dean being a supposedly dead serial killer, we decided it was safer to keep you both here than risk taking you to the hospital.”

       “That, and we figured out what happened was supposed to be a blessing,” Sam added.

       “Blessing?” Matt echoed.  He could feel the discomfort radiating from both men.

       “Um…yeah.”  Sam was rubbing on his neck again, his hesitant and self-conscious demeanor more like the boy who wanted to go to law school than the boy juiced up on hate and a she-demon’s blood.  “On our side of the door we could hear you guys screaming, but we couldn’t get through.  Then this golden light slid out under the door and moved over the whole bar.  It scorched all these marks into the walls…”

       “And ceilings and floor,” Foggy inserted.

       “Yeah.  And it burnt the rest of Meg’s blood out of me…”

       “And exorcised Josie’s grandmother’s ghost…but in a good way.”  The blond attorney and the young giant both jostled to tell the story.

       “And the scorch marks, they were good too.  I knew some, and some I described to Pastor Jim and Bobby Singer.  Most are protective sigils to keep out demons and practically every other supernatural creature I’ve ever heard of and some I haven’t.”

       “And others are to attract positive energy and ward off disasters.  Seriously, like aliens could probably invade New York and Josie’s would still be left standing.”  Foggy looked quickly over to Sam for back up, “There aren’t really aliens are there?”

       The young man didn’t quite manage to keep the mockery out of his voice, but it was a playful sound and not the soul-rending scorn he’d achieved so easily under the demon’s taint.  “Aliens aren’t really what we do, man.  Pretty sure they’re a hoax, just like Big Foot.”

       Matt held up his hands to focus their attention back on this supposed blessing that left both he and Dean unconscious.  “Okay, good things happened on your side of the door.  What went wrong on our side?”

       “The light came from your side.  What do you remember?”

       “Nothing.  I mean, we weren’t doing anything special.  Dean had used the paint he mixed to protect the back room before I even went back there.  We were on our way back to you guys when this happened.”

       Matt was treated to a synchronized impatient eyeroll which was truly quite impressive Foggy thought, though wasted on this particular audience since facial expressions were something beyond his friend’s superpowers of detection.  “Man, it’ll take Sam ten minutes to spit this out so I’m just gonna say it:  beatin’ Dean’s ass doesn’t fall under the category of ‘nothin’ special’, so what else aren’t you tellin’ us?”  Matt had the grace to blush, prompting a snort from the shaggy blond.  “Buddy, you forgot the meaning of the word discreet the moment you met Dean, so don’t even pretend to be embarrassed.”  Foggy clapped his hands together, “So, Sammy here promises not to spontaneously combust while you tell us exactly what you and Dean-o have been up to.  Everything.”  When Matt still looked stubborn, Foggy sighed.  “Reach up to the collar of your shirt.”

       Matt quirked an eyebrow up, but did as he was instructed.  The neck of the borrowed t-shirt was torn in their rough make-out session, the fabric stiff in spots where blood had dried.  Blood?  Matt seemed to recall…  Christ, he remembered biting the hunter deep enough to draw blood.  Matt had never…  Not even with Electra.  That had never been something he did or even something he wanted.  Knowing Dean’s sexual history, part of Matt was going nuts at the risk he had taken, another part was preening in satisfaction that he had marked Dean that deeply, maybe even permanently.  Jesus, what was wrong with him?  He moved to touch the bruise Dean had sucked onto his neck, unable to hide the slight curve of a smile as he remembered his hunter’s excitement at being allowed to mark him.

       “No.  It's not your hickey I'm worried about, Hot Lips.  This.”  Foggy reached forward and directed Matt’s hand to a spot below his collarbone.  The dark-haired lawyer frowned at the raised scar he found there.  That was new.  He let his fingers explore the mark.  Outwardly, it felt like an old wound, long-healed and scarred over, a carving into his flesh, or a brand maybe.  He paused as his ears detected the sound of Dean shifting in the bed, but the hunter stilled and Matt resumed his study.  Like the mark of the daeva Dean had demonstrated the night before, the central figure of this design was the Zoroastrian _Z,_ but there were small circles on either side joined together by opposing arrows.  Those small circles were points on the diameter of a larger flaming circle, like two planets sharing the same orbit around the sun.  Matt pushed his fingers into the scar tissue expecting pain only to find that his body gave a shudder of pleasure instead.  He coughed to hide the reaction from the two men who were facing him and no doubt staring intently.  Thankfully, Dean chose that moment to release a noise loud enough for the two regular humans to hear.  Matt stood to check on his lover, only to have Sam put a hand on his shoulder as the younger Winchester opened the door to watch Dean for a moment.  It took a ridiculous amount of will power to keep himself from breaking Sam’s arm and barricading himself in the room with Dean where he could return to the warm bed and curl up around the sweet-scented man.  He shook off the thought and cleared his throat.  “Dean didn't do this to me if that's what you're thinking.  He passed out before me.  What is it?”

       “The same mark is on Dean’s chest,” Foggy informed him, and again Matt felt the irrational surge of irritation that someone had seen Dean shirtless and touched the mark that was meant for Matt’s fingers alone…or his mouth.  He was distracted by the thought of the hunter writhing underneath him as he sucked at the scar on Dean’s chest.  From the other side of the door, Dean moaned softly as if he was imagining the same thing and Matt felt his own arousal spike.

       Sam and Foggy exchanged knowing looks, their suspicions confirmed.  It was Matt’s partner who dared snap his fingers in Matt’s face to refocus his attention.  “Earth to Matt.  Houston, we seem to have lost the connection.  Come in, Matt.”  Matt tuned back in with a growl that drained the color from his friend’s face.  “Oooo-kay.  Sam, you want to take over?”

       Sam swallowed loudly and his shoulders curved into a slouch.  “Um…yeah…  So get this, the mark is a sigil representing Mithra, the larger circle, and his two…um…companions.”  There was an awkward pause.

       “I’m waiting to hear how this is supposed to be a gift,” Matt said sourly.

       “Um…the...uh…companions were part of Mithra himself.  If he was the sun, they were the rising and the setting, the Spring and the Fall, life and death.  In some lore they represent Obedience and Truth.  They were also gods of judgment, protectors of the poor, guardians of humanity against both the daeva, demons, and the druj which is the human equivalent of evil.”  Sam seemed encouraged by Matt’s nod.  “And...  Well…  Mithra is the god of bonds, you know, among other things.  Not bonds like savings bonds…um…bonds like…ties, connections…um…between people.”

       “Congrats!” Foggy's sarcasm scratched Matt’s ears.  “You’ve been married by an angel.”

       “Marriage,” Matt repeated feeling light-headed.  “That’s not…not…”

       “Not legally,” Foggy clarified quickly.  “But we think that you and Dean are…um…connected somehow.  When we were finally able to get through the door to you guys, you were both…um glowing.”

       “Glowing?”  Matt wasn’t capable of much more than parroting the ends of the others’ sentences.  Everything was a shock.  Everything was wrong.  Or was it…Dean was his.  Fire raced through Matt’s blood and into his groin, overwhelming his brain's feeble attempt to remain rational.  In the room he heard Dean whimper, Matt's name a soft gasp breezing past the younger man's plump lips.  

       “Well, not anymore,” Foggy was quick to assure him though Matt had already forgotten everything but his desire for Dean.  “The glow faded, but you both look different…  I dunno, Dean’s had a Malibu Ken doll makeover complete with a golden tan and highlights (Sam snickered in true younger brother fashion) and you like you still look like you, but everything’s…perfect.”

       That made the Daredevil frown.  “You think we’re possessed?”

       “No.”  Sam didn’t sound so sure.  “I mean we tested you with everything we could think of:  holy water, salt, consecrated iron, silver, fire, sage, even lemons which some fae react to.  We recited three different exorcism rituals.  The only thing that got a reaction from either of you was when we pulled you apart.  Mahoney’s downstairs with cotton stuffed up his nose and I’ve got an eye that’s going to be swollen shut for the next couple days.”

       “So we’re glowing, we’re pretty and we don’t like to be manhandled.  How does that make us angel-married?”

       Foggy shot Sam an _I-fucking-told-you-so_ glare that Matt couldn’t see.  “Matt, dude, you’re not gay.  You haven’t been with a guy in…  What?  Twelve years?  Karen’s been giving you come hither signals for months and you still haven’t made a move.  Hot nurse Claire would take you to bed in a heart beat, but you tell me you can’t do relationships, you can’t take a night off.  Falling hard and fast hasn’t been your style since Electra.  Guys like Dean didn’t even interest you when you thought guys were interesting.  And what’s with the PDA, man?  The Matt I know…half the time I wonder if that cane of yours is stuck up your butt you’re so fuckin’ stiff.”

       “And Dean,” Sam chimed in.  “My brother was shoplifting copies of Busty Asian Beauties before he could even read.  He loves tits.  Believe me, I’m the one who has to listen to him.  I promise you he’s never been with a dude unless he was gettin’ paid for it.”

       Matt was quiet, but both men noticed the way a muscle in his jaw jumped under the skin.  “So would either of you be putting up this fight if it weren’t for the gay thing?”

       Sam flushed bright red and Foggy reeled back as if Matt had slapped him.  “Don’t even!”  Hands pulled at long blond hair.  “Before I learned this shit I was happy for you!  Surprised and maybe a bit concerned…but happy.  But this isn’t you, Matt.  Father Lantom’s already told us about the honeybee curse and the supernatural attack on the church.  Something’s in your head, man.  Probably Dean’s too.  You’ve got a brain so fucking use it!  Tell me that everything I just said about you isn’t true.  Make me believe Dean is really your choice:  knowing, voluntary, intelligent, and free from undue influence.”   

       He opened his mouth and nothing came out.  Foggy was right.  The thought turned his stomach.

       Seeing his friend turn as pale as the ghost of Grandma Josie and clutch at his mouth Foggy snagged him by the shirt and pushed him into the bathroom then went to stand outside the door where Sam was leaning against the wall.  “That went better than expected.”

       Sam nodded.  “One down.  One to go.”

       Matt’s shattered dream tasted of cheeseburgers, tequila and bile.  Once the contents of his stomach had been evacuated, he flushed the toilet and shut the bathroom door.  “Shower,” he muttered to his handlers before shutting them out.  Everything from the dried spend in his underwear, to the clothes he took off which carried Dean’s scent, to the sigil carved on his chest and the tender hickey on his neck, to the shower itself reminded him of Dean.  His chest ached like he had lost the love of his life and not a man he had known for a mere day…further proof that he couldn’t trust his own feelings right now.  There was logic.  There was evidence.  There was the testimony of Foggy and Sam reminding Matt of what he already knew.  It was an overwhelming case with a clear and convincing verdict, and Matt hated it. 

       Still, a meddlesome part of his mind kept needling him.  What about the angel Castiel?  The angel that had silenced his voice had seemed surprised by their rapid romance, even envious.  Castiel hadn’t done this.  And the angel had confirmed repeatedly that Dean Winchester was protected.  Castiel and his garrison wouldn’t have allowed a supernatural influence other than their own to enter Dean’s mind, right?  So maybe he was the only one affected.  That thought nearly made him sick again.  That meant Dean’s feelings were real.

       Tossing the soiled underwear in the trash, Matt pulled the jeans back on, scrubbed the dried blood from the borrowed t-shirt, then tugged the damp shirt back over his head.  He lingered outside the bathroom debating which way to turn before descending the stairs and finding his way to the bar.  He let his fingers trail over the walls as he walked, feeling the strange pulse of energy that still emanated from the sigils placed there.  Curiously he touched the sigil he now bore on his flesh, sensing power and life that didn’t belong to him radiating from the scar.  Wondering if the god could hear him, Matt unleashed a torrent of fury at Mithra.  The mark began to burn as if touched by a blow torch, causing Matt to stagger, but the pain was gone as quickly as it had appeared leaving behind only a lingering aura of disapproval.  “Yeah?” Matt muttered.  “Join the fucking club.”

       The bar stank of sour milk which neither the lingering aroma of paint and pizza nor the fresh pot of coffee could hide.  The space was also filled with a silence so thick Matt found it almost impossible to breathe the air.

       “I think this is what they call a pregnant pause,” Foggy said as he cleared his throat.

       “Yeah?” Turk’s voice wasn’t much more than a harsh whisper.  “Well, I sure as fuck would feel a damn sight better if Rosemary decided to have her devil-baby in Jersey and got the fuck outta Hell’s Kitchen.”

       “How’s Dean?” Josie asked as she tapped a shot glass on the counter to direct Matt to the bar.

       He hadn’t checked on Dean before coming down the stairs.  He was as surprised by that choice as the bartender who recognized his answer in his guilty expression.  “So that’s how it’s gonna be?”  Josie’s tone was as cold and painful as frostbite.

       “It wasn’t real,” he repeated as a reminder to her and to himself.

       “Bullshit.”  Josie nearly had pity on the man.   It was obvious the revelation had shattered him, but it was his own fault for believing it.  “That’s a choice, not a fact.  Just ‘cause they say it, don’t make it true.”

       “It’s true.”

       “So what if it is?”  Matt blinked at her, not understanding.  Josie sighed and took the shot out of his hand, replacing it with a cup of coffee strong enough to strip paint, but she held her tongue as Sam approached the bar to lead Matt away.

       With all the enthusiasm of a dead man walking, Matt allowed Sam to guide him to a table where Foggy, Mahoney and Father Lantom were seated.  He could sense Karen seated nearby where she could observe out the front window and Turk had been near the bar angled to watch towards the kitchen.  “Where’s Karen?” he asked, hoping for an explanation to the observation he couldn’t speak aloud.

       “Keeping watch,” she answered for herself.  “For a rainy night, there are a lot of people occupying this stretch of sidewalk.  So far all they’ve done is look.  No one’s tried to get in except the kid delivering our pizza.”

       “Who?”  Matt remembered that he and Dean had been watched earlier in the day when they had entered the bar.

       “Alfie.  You know, from Toroni’s Pies, Pints, Wings and Wieners two blocks over.  Baby face. Pimples,” Foggy explained.

       “Not who delivered the pizza,” Matt bumped his glasses up and pushed against his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger.  “Who’s watching?”

       Mahoney answered.  “Couple men in black.  A few shady characters.  Dude in a fuckin’ opera cape.  Some crazy lookin’ tax accountant type.  Bullseye.  Thought I even saw our perp.”

       “The demon?”  Matt asked as those around him flinched.

       “Meg,” Sam snapped.  “She has a name.  And if we can exorcize the demon, she can have her life back.”

       Foggy rolled his eyes.  “Apparently _demon_ (Matt could both see the air quotes motion and hear it in his friend’s voice) is politically incorrect.  Right now it’s a toss-up between _Satanically challenged_ or _Sam’s sinfully sabotaged squeeze_?”

       “Visit one of her murder scenes and see if you wanna call her anything but hell’s whore,” Brett’s outrage rivaled Sam’s.

       “The girl’s not in control!”

       “Right now, that thing is not a girl!”

       The priest raised his hands and the two men lowered their butts back into their seats.  “How are you, Matthew?”

       “Fine.”  Josie’s snort of disdain could be heard from across the bar.  “So what do you think happened to me?”

       Sam quickly leaped back into the role of professor though the question hadn't been directed at him:  “Hunters are always on alert for outside influences, something that changes your thought processes, your personality or behavior without you being aware.  You don’t always have to be possessed for something supernatural to change you.”

       “Is it dangerous?”

       “It can be.  It depends on what you’re being influenced to do.” 

       "You mean like trying to kill your brother?" Josie's ire extended to the younger Winchester as well.

       "Yeah," Sam gave a weak laugh.  "Like that.  Meg's blood was an outside influence."

       “And you think Dean and I are being influenced to…what?  Fall in love?  Why?  How in the hell does that benefit Mithra?”

       “We don’t know,” the priest interjected before Sam could respond.  “In fact, we don’t know that your relationship was influenced at all.”  So the priest and Josie were on Team True Love.  “What Sam's telling you is nothing more than a theory.”

       “But Sam said the sigil…  That it meant we’re bonded together?”

       “True,” the priest agreed.  “But what we don’t know is if the sigil is merely symbolic or if it holds true power.  Or when the bond took effect.  If you weren’t bonded until you were marked, then the supernatural influence didn’t taint your earlier interactions.”

       “We were hoping you could answer that?”  Sam wasn’t so much hoping as demanding.

       Matt shook his head.  A lie.  Matt had been visited by an angel twice, an angel that revealed horrible secrets then forced Matt’s silence.  Dean’s scent had changed, Matt knew that.  He’d just held a conversation in his head with a freaking god/arch-angel clone.  And he was almost certain that before Dean had passed out he could feel Dean’s presence in his head.  He just wasn’t sure what that meant yet.  He deflected with another question:  “Do you have a theory as to why?  Why me and Dean?  Why get in our heads?”

       “We think Dean is the Righteous Man.”  That came from Sam, but the priest nodded his agreement.  Neither expected Matt to go pale.

       “How did you know?”

       “The exorcism of the daeva can only be performed by The Righteous Man according to the literature from Mr. Singer.  Because of the demon blood he drank from Meg we agreed that Sam couldn’t take the role.  He and Dean have the most knowledge of the supernatural, and…” the priest finally admitted what he held back earlier, “…Mr. Singer told me that the vessel of the god is described as having green eyes, golden skin and, well, I took it as freckles.”

       “M…Mithra’s vessel, not…”  Matt intended to say _Michael’s_ , instead what came from his mouth was:  “Humanity will only survive for four years after the extinction of bees.”  Apparently the whammy was still intact.  And with the involuntary factoid, Matt felt an apology tinged with fear, warning and regret warm the new scar on his chest.  Matt didn’t want to think too much on what could strike fear into a god.  He also didn’t want to think about what that meant for the man sleeping upstairs, the man whose choices were either going to destroy the world or save it.

       “What the hell?”  Foggy’s comment on the random tidbit of apian trivia was echoed by everyone except Father Lantom who had already witnessed the occurrence.

       “I was hoping our friend with the golden light might have fixed that for you,” the priest echoed Matt’s own wishes.  “He seemed to have fixed everything else.”  Which begged the question:  Was Mithra powerless to break Castiel's geas or had he chosen to leave the gag order in place?

       “The Righteous Man, that meant something to you?  Something about Dean?”  Sam’s large frame leaned over the table.  “What do you know?”

       Matt couldn’t speak.  He couldn’t even nod, much less open his mouth again.  The supernatural prohibition bound him completely.  He closed his eyes to keep the panic at bay, furious as the perfume of blackberry, bay and summer surrounded him, but inhaling deeply nonetheless…Dean.  No, there was ozone mixed into the potpourri:  Mithra.  Matt clenched his fists, but even his anger couldn’t stop the comfort that embraced him as he was enveloped in the marvelous scent.

       After silencing the younger Winchester, the priest gave a thoughtful hum, and the old man continued.  “The exorcism ritual for the daeva describes two men.  The Righteous Man drinks the ceremonial brew to gain the power to banish the monster and the other man protects and cares for the Righteous One during the course of the ritual.”

       “Him?” Sam almost laughed at the ridiculous suggestion of the blind man protecting his brother from attack.  “You can’t be serious.  They’ll both get killed.”

       “Shit,” Foggy muttered in understanding.

       “You’re all crazy,” the cop protested.  “We find out where this bitch is, I’m sending a SWAT team in.”

       “Bullet proof vests won’t save them from that thing, and you’ve seen enough by now to know it,” Sam argued.

       “I’ll get Dean a SWAT uniform and helmet.  That’ll get him in without notice and he can do his thing and get out, but possessed or not, that girl is going to jail.”

       “For what?  You know she did it, but how are you going to prove it?”  The blond defense attorney felt obliged to point out.

       “She’s been possessed for how many months now?  Is she even still sane?” Karen asked, joining the fray.

       “No civilians!  I’m going in with Dean.  If anyone’s watching my brother’s back it’s me.”

       “No, Sam!  Hell no!”  Matt’s voice was loud enough to be heard over the arguments and bring the room to a stand still.  “If this is about your family, getting all of you together, the two of you aren’t going to serve yourselves up on a platter.  That’s the one thing the damn…voice-stealing, bee-loving… _creature_ will let me say.”

       “A monster wants me out of the picture?  All the more reason to go!”

       “No,” Matt insisted.  “Meg still has a hold over you, Sam.  Her blood may be gone, but you see her as a girl, a victim.  You’re going to be focused on saving her and not on protecting Dean.  And if she does get her blood inside you again?  What then?”

       “And you think you can keep him safe?”

       “I think the bond was created for a reason.”  The words put a bad taste in his mouth.  Matt didn’t like being manipulated.     

       “Or,” Sam shot back, “Someone wants the two of you bonded to give them leverage, a bargaining chip, a way to ensure you and Dean do what they want to keep each other safe.”

       “No.  Now that we know all these feelings are fake, that’s not gonna work for them.”  Sam couldn’t help but believe him.

       “Matthew, Dean didn’t do this to you,” Father Lantom cautioned while wishing he could speak his mind a bit more colorfully.

       “Don’t be an asshole, Murdock,” Turk nailed it.

       “Is it permanent?”  Matt ignored the criticism and the pain in his chest telling him they were right.

       Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably, his hand again nervously rubbing the back of his neck.  “We don’t know.”

       Anything else Sam said was lost in the mental tirade Matt threw at the god he knew was listening.  There was no reprimand this time, no response.  He was being tuned out like a toddler throwing a tantrum.  Matt kicked himself.  He needed to stop acting like a jilted lover and start focusing on the job:  keeping his city safe.  The job always came first.  It was better that way.  _Not really_.  If he was being completely honest he would have to say the job sucked.  The secrecy sucked.  The sleep deprivation sucked.  The broken bones and constant headaches, the smell of his own blood leaking from rips in his flesh, and the loneliness…every bit of it sucked.  But it was his choice.  Matt chose to live that way.  Dean was…someone who understood.  Someone who could share the burden of Matt's secret lifestyle.  Someone who would care for him when he came home bloody and discouraged.

       Dean was… 

       Dean was not his.  No matter how right it felt in his fantasies, which were undoubtedly influenced by some supernatural mojo, there was no room for the hunter in his life.  There was… 

       There was someone at the door.

       A pulse of tension filled the room practically popping Matt’s eardrums, but the others relaxed almost immediately.  “Alfie!”  Foggy shouted.  “Bring it on in!”  He shook himself free of the hand which had grabbed his wrist.  “Pizza, man,” he explained to Matt.  “By the way, you’re paying.  We kinda lifted your wallet while you were out.”  Foggy grinned as he made his way to the door of the bar where the teenaged delivery boy stood waiting.

       “Come on in!”  Josie shouted and gestured to the familiar teenager who stubbornly waited at the door.

       Under the powerful aroma of garlic, spices and greasy meat was the hint of cinnamon and vanilla.  Just as Matt opened his mouth to complain that he was _not_ paying for abominable dessert pizza, Karen opened the door and the scent of ozone assaulted his nose.  _Angel_. 

       “Karen!”

       Misinterpreting the urgency, Foggy rolled his eyes, and continued to dig through his pocket for the cash he needed.  “Relax, buddy.  We made Dean pay for the first round.”

       Matt didn’t act without thinking, quite the opposite, his brain was churning up an alibi even as he leaped to his feet, raced to the door and put himself between Karen and the angel.  Reaching across the threshold, Matt grasped the wrist of the teenager formerly known as Alfie and attempted to pull the boy into the bar.  The inhuman scream caused the lights in the bar to flicker as the creature’s flesh began to burn and a strange sigil placed on the wall by Mithra began to shine with yellow light once again.  Matt had only been able to move the angel by catching him unaware.  Alfie quickly pulled his arm back across the invisible line of protection, the pizzas falling to the floor along with an oddly shaped silver sword.  The boy disappeared to the sound of the frantic beat of wings.

       “How did you…”

       “What was that thing?”

       “How did he…?”

       “What do we do with…?”

       The questions overlapped, layered on top of pounding heartbeats and the sour tang of fear-sweat.  Matt held up a hand to beg for silence, pretending to regroup his faculties from the shock of what had just happened, what he had just done.  In reality he was scanning the area, cursing the rain that was masking scent and sound until he tuned his senses in to use the rain as he had the night before.  There were two spies on the roof of the building across the street.  Three were inside the darkened storefront.  Bullseye was in the shadowed alley under an awning to shield him from the rain as he shuffled a deck of cards over and over.  Matt kicked the pizzas and the short sword-like object into the room before letting the door close.

       “Everyone okay?”

       He wasn’t surprised to find Sam Winchester had crossed the room in a few long strides and was pressing the barrel of a pistol to his head and a silver knife to his throat.  “What the hell was that?  How did you do that?”

       “That wasn’t me.  That was Mithra protecting his investment.”  The lie came easily and Matt wondered how far he could push it.

       “Are you cured?  Can you see?”  Karen’s voice trembled, praying for a miracle for him in spite of how he’d hurt her that night.  God, she was too good for him.

       “No.  I just…  I just knew.”  Better to keep it vague.  “I don’t think I’ve ever moved that fast in my life.”  Sam hesitated briefly before lowering the knife and gun.

       “Do you know what this is?”  Mahoney picked up the weapon Alfie dropped.

       “Fuck that!  A kid just disappeared!  A kid we knew!  A kid who was just here two hours ago and stepped through that door with no problem!  Is he okay?”

       “That wasn’t Alfie.  Not anymore.”

       “Demon?” Sam asked.

       “Not anymore?  What does that mean?”  Fuck the supernatural.  The sooner the monsters and the Winchesters were out of their lives the better.  Foggy couldn’t wait for this nightmare to be over.  “We know his parents for Christ’s sake!”

       “Not a demon,” Matt answered Sam.  “He smelled like cinnamon rolls not sulfur.”

       “Angel?”

       He nodded.

       “So angels possess humans?  How does that make them any different than demons?”  Josie demanded, glaring at the priest as if it was his fault.

       “Angels need consent,” Matt admitted, remembering a piece of his conversation with Castiel.  "Alfie had to give his permission."

       Sam shook his head.  “I didn’t even believe angles were real before today.  I don’t know any hunters who’d know if you're telling the truth or not.”

       “Alfie let an angel hitch a ride?  An angel who wants to kill us?”  Foggy demanded, also glaring at the priest.  "What did we do?”

       “I believe Matthew was the one who attacked,” the priest answered calmly.

       “This ain’t no toothpick, padre,” Mahoney waved the angel blade.

       “Matt?” Sam asked for his opinion, further proof that the world might well be ending.

       The blind man slumped into a chair.  “I just knew he wasn’t one of us and I panicked.”

       “You panicked or…”  Sam waved a hand, the gesture clearly meant the creature Matt was now bonded to.

       “Me,” Matt sighed.  “I guess Mithra knew the wards he drew could keep out angels as well as demons.  I mean the kid started to burn.  I could smell it.”  Burning flesh and ozone and screams and…  Goddamn (or was it really little- _g_ -goddamn in this case) cinnamon rolls were ruined for him from this moment forward.  Matt started to chuckle hysterically before he staggered to his feet.  There was nothing left to throw up but bile, but he didn’t want to puke on Josie’s floor.  The bell over the entry rang as Matt wrenched open the door – _“Every time a bell rings…”_ a child’s voice reciting lines from _It’s a Wonderful Life_ tingled in his memory drowning out his companions’ shouts of protest and concern - and stumbled outside, dropping to his knees on the damp sidewalk as his stomach began to heave.

       “Matt!” 

       “Murdock, you fool!  Get back in here!”

       Alfie appeared beside the fallen man and they disappeared together as the others watched.

**********

       “Fuck,” Matt groaned, reacting to the disorientation of angel flight as poorly as he had the first time.  However, he felt two fingers touch his forehead and instantly a benign warmth filled him and the nausea was gone.  Accepting help from the teen angel, Matt rose to his feet.  The ozone in the air stung his nose.  There was a third angel in the room with Castiel and Alfie, who smelled of rosemary and graphite, and a man with an aura of Old Spice, coffee, whiskey, and snuffed out candle.  The pressure in his ears told Matt they were underground.    “Where am I?”  The noises and scents of his surroundings weren’t familiar to the New Yorker.

       The man rose to his feet, hand extended in peace.  “Matt, I’m Jim Murphy.  Welcome to Blue Earth, son.”

       “I’m in Montana?”  Matt swayed dangerously on his feet as the nausea returned.

       “Minnesota,” the priest corrected.

       “You knew about…about _them_ all along?”  Matt tried to shrug himself free of Alfie’s grip and found he’d given himself an impossible task, the kid was made of steel.  “Let me go,” he finally demanded.  The younger angel angled his head towards the presence Matt identified as Castiel, awaiting his captain’s direction.

       “Do as he asks, Samandriel,” Castiel consented in a voice that rumbled with authority.

       “Samandriel?  Where’s Alfie?” Matt snarled.  “Did you hurt him?”

       The teenager laid a tender hand on Matt’s shoulder.  “The boy was captured by demons when he left your sanctuary earlier.  He was tortured and his body was host to a demon when I found him.  They hoped to use him as I did to gain access to you.  I smote the demon.  Alfie is in heaven now and I am using his vessel with his consent.”  That tender hand became an embrace as Matt’s knees gave way, the strength of the ancient angel unaffected by the thin body he possessed.  “I am sorry.”

       “He was a kid.  He…”  Matt struggled against the arms that held him fast. 

       The angel allowed Father Murphy to remove Matt from his hold and the priest put a shot glass into Matt’s hand.  “Here.  Settle your nerves.”

       Matt tossed back the whiskey and held out the empty glass.  As soon as Matt’s hand was free, it became a fist that swung towards the dark haired angel.  There was a sickening crack as a bone in that fist snapped upon contact with the angel’s unmoving jaw. 

       “I could have told you that was pointless,” Father Murphy took Matt’s wrist to examine his injured hand.  “Tried it myself a time or two.”

       Matt was stunned when the priest pulled him by the wrist over to the angel he had just assaulted.  There was a brief touch of fingers to his hand and a warmth flared under his skin.  The pain disappeared.  “You…”  He’d just witnessed a miracle.

       “Damn useful, buggers, when they want to be,” Pastor Jim commented wryly.  “Let’s get some food, coffee and another shot into you, Mr. Murdock, then I’ll tell you what I know.”

       “And how long you’ve known it.”

       The priest sighed and poured himself a shot as well.  “From the beginning.  I knew before John Winchester and his boys showed up on my doorstep.”


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

 

         Mithra watched The Righteous Man sleep, keeping watch beside the younger brother.  Matt had been gone an hour.  Sam and the others had tried to run outside after him, but the god had slammed the door and no one would be coming or going without his consent.  It had been a simpler matter to disable their telephones as well.  They weren’t happy, but they were safe.

         Matt was safe too.  Mithra knew that much.  If the angels who’d taken him had decided to kill him or torture him for information, Mithra and Dean both would have felt it through the bond whether Matt tried to block them or not.  Some things couldn’t be kept out.

         Sam leaned forward, running a hand over his big brother’s forehead.  He’d done it several times already.  Nothing had changed.  The god didn’t have the means to tell the human not to worry.  Dean just needed rest.  The older Winchester was already exhausted even before the sigil was created, and making the mental connection with Matt Murdock hadn’t been easy on any of the three.  And now the angels knew what had been done.  And likely Michael too. 

         Fuck them. 

         Seeing Lucifer’s vessel, the soul still so beautiful even veined with demon black, caring for his brother, provided the hope Mithra needed.

         Mithra had only been in New York because of the hi-jacked daeva.  Heaven may have abandoned him, but, unlike many others of his kind, Mithra had remained true to his purpose.  It had become more and more difficult over the ages without a vessel and without the many worshippers to prepare the sacred drink that offered some protection for their bodies and minds during the limited time he entered them to perform whatever task was needed.  Knowing the daeva would need to be contained, in New York of all places, he had hoped to find another god like Loki who had managed to find a permanent vessel and was living among the mortals, maybe a demigod descended from such a god.  He would have settled for a psychic, mystic, suitable mutant or even a willing witch.  He’d located a few potential temporary vessels and had been attempting to overcome the challenge of communication to secure consent and teach them to make the sacred drink when Dean had driven into the city in that sleek black beauty of a car.  Every being in New York with supernatural sensitivity felt their internal radar pinging off the chart as threat levels hit Def Con 1.  Of course he had to check it out.  He never expected to see The Righteous Man with Lucifer’s vessel at his side. 

         There are three things to know about prophecies.  One:  Apocalypse prophecies are a dime a dozen.  Two:  Most never come to pass (obviously).  But this one involved angels, so, of course, the egotistical bastards paid attention.  The prophecy had been made several millennia before, and while Mithra had no firsthand knowledge, he trusted Loki’s information, The Trickster had his ways.  So the prophecy said that a gateway between earth and hell would be opened by the Boy King, a human possessing the power to lead the armies of hell, and Lucifer would be freed from his cage.  Like Mithra and all those considered abominations, Lucifer could no longer enter heaven, so he would take the Boy King as his vessel to roam the earth.  Heaven’s champion would claim The Righteous Man as his sword, his earthly vessel, and would hunt down the devil.  In the aftermath, Paradise would be restored on the Earth and above and below, and God would reward the champion, blah, blah, blah.  Of course, Mithra hadn’t seen Loki for a few centuries, though he knew the god was still around.  He’d had no idea that the time of the prophecy had come to pass until he saw Dean’s soul and realized who he was.   And who Sam was.  Both brothers were vessels.  All things considered, it made a sick sort of sense. 

         He’d expected two rival princes, spoiled beyond belief, not a soul-bonded pair in a cheap motel room.  Of course he shouldn’t have been surprised, he’d seen what heaven had allowed to happen to Jesus.  But God’s Son had known who he was, known his destiny and willingly accepted his path and his fate.  The angels who had surrounded him had begged to intervene, begged to serve him, begged to ease his suffering.  These Winchester boys were human, not divine, and Mithra saw that most of the angelic guard despised them.  The angels had isolated themselves in heaven for so long they had no idea why humans were special, no idea what is was like to struggle, to doubt, to fear…or to love.  So the god had listened, and watched.  When the younger brother full of demon blood had taunted the Righteous Man, angels had laughed alongside the demon.  Only a few even noticed the beautiful soul fall in love with the red soul and form a bond, but they noticed the sex.  This was the protection Michael gave to his vessel?  Michael was supposed to be the champion of humanity, and he didn’t care enough to treasure the boy who was supposed to help him save the world?  If Michael had been corrupted, Lucifer had already won the battle.  Humanity was lost.  

         Maybe it had been childish of Mithra to break his father’s stained glass window in the church, and certainly foolish to expend the energy it took to impact the physical plane on something that benefitted no one, but as a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent without a vessel and locked out of heaven and all forms of angelic communication, it was the quickest way to make his displeasure known.  Then the Righteous Soul saw him.  It reached out for him.  It touched him and gave up part of itself.  And in that moment Mithra was soul-bonded with The Righteous Man; Michael and Lucifer, destinies and prophecies be damned.

         And that’s the third thing to know about prophecies:  They’ll either happen or they won’t.  All the plotting and planning on earth (and above and below) won’t stop Fate from having her way.  Mithra would have thought the angels would have learned that by now.    

*****

         The hospitable priest had insisted Matt eat, heating leftovers while Matt’s questions went unanswered and the three angels stood so still Matt might have forgotten they were there if it weren’t for their scents.  So Matt went through the motions of eating a bowl of beef stew and a slab of buttered bread, tasting nothing, while the priest finally began to talk, weaving a story around him like a blanket.  A story he’d never been able to tell before.  In twenty-four hours Matt had discovered fairy tales were real:  Angels and demons, ghosts and gods, werewolves and whatever the fuck a wendigo was.  In twenty-four hours he’d fallen in love…but not really.  Gotten married…but not really.  And abandoned his unconscious lover…but not really?  Thinking of Dean was unavoidable.  Was he awake yet?  Was he okay?  Was he worried for Matt?  What would he do when he found out about the bond?      

         Pastor Jim was a man Matt could tell was accustomed to laughter, whereas Father Lantom repeatedly surprised Matt whenever he showed his sense of humor.  Jim Murphy was jovial and a natural story-teller, his voice booming one moment and quiet as snowfall the next.  Father Murphy had been exposed to the supernatural while still in the seminary, a ghost haunting the dorms.  He was selected and trained as a hunter by the previous pastor of Blue Earth, inheriting that man’s arsenal, library and special mission.  Though he never met face to face with the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, it was evident that his role was known, from the fact that he was allowed to remain in Blue Earth without the possibility of transfer to another parish; to the extra stipend he received quarterly from the Vatican itself which aided expenses like silver, powerful artifacts and rare herbs; to the calls that came his way from all over North America when other priests found themselves confronting evil they couldn’t explain.  Most tellingly, no one asked questions when two young boys were left in his care for months at a time.  Two young boys who had still smelled of smoke when he first met them, wearing the soiled pajamas that were their only possessions following the fire that destroyed their house the week before, the night a demon killed their mother and gave six-month-old Sam his first taste of demon blood.  Already the harried young father showed the signs of obsession, a single-minded focus to seek and destroy the monsters that he now knew lived in the real world.  Four year-old Dean didn’t speak and already bore bruises from his father’s hands when a drunken John Winchester lost his patience with the boy’s questions and the baby’s cries.

         “You knew?”  The cheap metal spoon in Matt’s hand bent in his clenched fist.  “When he was four?  How many times did you know and you never reported it?  I grew up in the system.  It wasn’t the best, but Dean and Sam were so young…they could have been adopted.  None of this had to happen!”

         “Adopted by whom?  Demons?  Castiel told you about the prophecy.  Anael, Castiel’s predecessor, warned me that the prophecy was known in Hell!”  The priest shouted back.  “You think I didn’t try to sober John up?  Didn’t try to get him to do right by those boys?  But if they entered the system…  Best case scenario, they would have grown up normal, and been totally unprepared for the future that destiny already had put in motion.  Worst case?  You got a glimpse of that:  a Sam who, after a few hits of demon blood, turns on the brother who raised him and loves him more than life itself.  Can you imagine what Sam would be like if he’d been fed that poison for years?”

         “He’d be…”  Matt fell back into his seat with a thump, realization making him dizzy and frightened.  “Michael and Lucifer are brothers…  If the prophecy says Michael has a claim on Dean for the apocalypse, then Sam is…Lucifer’s vessel?”

         “Yes,” Castiel admitted. 

         Matt felt his world tremble and wondered how he had found himself here thrust center stage into the Book of Revelation.  How many times had he complained to Father Lantom about the difficulty of blind faith?  God, he'd been so stupid.  “Then why is he still alive?  Why are either of them still alive?  If you want to stop the apocalypse, why haven’t you killed them both?”

         “That’s your solution?  Murder?”  There was an icy edge to the priest’s voice.

         “No!  But I have to ask the question.  I’m a lawyer.  That’s what we do.  And something’s not adding up here.  Why keep the Winchesters alive?  If you know the game ends with The End, why keep playing?”

         “I do not question my orders,” Castiel responded.

         “Maybe you ought to!  Damnit, Castiel, that’s not an excuse!  The real God can handle a few questions.  If your superiors can’t, maybe you ought to worry about whose plan they’re following.”

         “God is gone,” Samandriel sounded even younger than the child whose body he occupied.  “He abandoned us.”

         Pastor Jim put a hand on the smaller angel’s shoulder and squeezed.  “If God is God, he’s never really gone and he’s never not listening.  Maybe he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with what he taught you.  This is your test.”

         “But what if he wants us to obey?  What if that’s the test.”

         “I’ve told you before, humans are taught God’s greatest commandment is love.  Everything else pales in comparison.  Hold all your orders up to that light, and make your decision,” the priest offered.  “You’ve listened better than some,” he glared at Uriel.

         “At least for now, Sam’s demon blood free,” Matt informed the trio.  “Mithra removed the demon blood.  Surely Sam won’t fall into that trap again?”

         The angel bit his lip, causing the priest to hold back his assurance that Sam Winchester wouldn’t be repeating his mistake.  “Demon blood is addictive from the first dose.  It fuels aggression, paranoia, jealousy and narcissism, but it also gives the drinker increased strength, enhanced senses and sometimes powers associated with demons or dark energy.  There are cults that produce assassins fed on demon blood since birth, as Father Murphy said.  Those that survive the process are known as Black Sky.”  With a head tilt, the angel blinked at Matt.  “You know of the Black Sky?”

         “Stay out of my head.”

         “You were projecting.  What do you know?”

         Matt nodded, tongue running over his lips.  His mouth had suddenly gone dry.  “There was a powerful sect of Yakuza I was told were bringing in some massive weapon.   They called it Black Sky.  When the crate was opened…it was just a kid inside.  A kid wrapped in chains.  He couldn’t have been more than ten.  My…mentor…killed him.  We parted ways after that.”

         Pastor Jim was frowning.  “What kind of lawyer are you?”

         “He is one of the gifted,” Castiel explained.

         “A mutant?”

         Matt tensed, ready to defend himself if necessary.  “I’ve never been tested.”

         The priest crossed his arms over his chest, looking at Matt through narrowed eyes.  “So what’s your gift?” 

         Matt had no intention of answering that question.

         Much to his chagrin, Castiel was happy to oblige.  “To compensate for his loss of normal vision, his other senses have enhanced to a miraculous degree, allowing him both a type of sonar and heat vision.  His mentor also trained him extensively in martial arts.  Matt Murdock is known as Daredevil or The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

         “This is keeping Dean safe?” the priest shouted at the angels and even Matt wanted to cower.  “You’ve put him and Sam on the radar of the human mobsters and monsters!  They never should have gone to New York!”    

         “The Righteous Man will always live with danger until he fulfills his destiny as Michael’s Sword.”

         Well…  Matt changed the subject rather than argue.  “Why did they tell you about the prophecy?” Matt asked Father Murphy.

         “Originally, I was to provide protection, training and education.  I taught John Winchester what was out there and taught him how to kill it.  That extended to Sam and Dean.  Those boys are as much mine as his, and I tried to do right by them as best I could.  They’re smarter than their father, kinder than him and better fighters too.  I helped Sam with his Stanford application.  I guess I hoped I could get him away; avert the future.  I kept Dean’s secrets.  I prayed.”  He poured another shot, letting the whiskey serve as an excuse for the way his voice thickened and rasped over the next part of the story.  “Angels.  Anael at first, but then usually Uriel or Samandriel would tell me when Dean would…  When he would…”  Pastor Jim covered his face, the truth and the memories weren’t easy to recall, and they came with guilt.  If Dean was like a son to him then he owned a share of the blame for everything.  “When they had to save him.  Sometimes from injuries caused by others.  Sometimes from the things he did or wanted to do to himself.  Sometimes they’d bring me to him and I’d pretend the timing was coincidence.  Sometimes they brought him to me still unconscious and I’d tell him I got a call from the police, or a hospital or a hotel manager since he keeps my contact information in his wallet.”

         “You lied to him.”                

         “Have you told him about Castiel?  About the prophecy?”

         “I can’t,” Matt admitted.  “The words won’t come.”

         The priest nodded. 

         “After twenty years, I would find a way.  Or at least told the angels to clean up their own mess.”

         The air seemed to chill a few degrees, and Matt remembered that Father Murphy wasn’t just a priest, he hunted and he killed the supernatural.  “Son, let’s just cut to the chase.  I ain’t above a bit of tough love and you don’t have the steel jaw of an angel.”

         Matt’s toothy grin was more of a challenge than a peace offering.  “I do have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

         “Those tricks won’t save you if you’re the next monster to break my boy apart.”

         “Indeed,” Castiel echoed the threat in a voice that resonated in Matt’s chest and quite quickly the superhero wasn’t feeling so smug.

         “I don’t want to hurt him,” Matt promised.  “He’s been hurt enough.”

         “It’s okay to love him,” Samandriel smiled gently.  “He loves you too.  You can’t help it.  I saw his soul reach for yours the first time you put a hand on his jumping knee.”

         Matt chose to ignore the L-word.  “You can see souls?  You can see my soul?  Is mine…  Am I…”  Matt was certain he wasn’t hiding his apprehension from the angels.  He struggled constantly with the darkness.  He worked as easily outside the law as within it.  He was judgment in the night, but many times he worried that he was as bad, or even worse, than the criminals he hunted.

         “All souls are different.  Dean’s burns as bright and white as Michael’s wings, as a field of freshly fallen snow sparkling in the first light of dawn.  Your soul, Matt Murdock, is made of layers of shifting red, orange, yellow and twilight.  The bits of Dean’s soul inside you soar like gulls in flight against a sunset, and strands of gold, like the strings of a harp waiting to be plucked, connect you to Mithra and Dean.”

         Matt’s eyes went wide, but he was speechless. 

         “Those strings are the result of the mark Mithra put on your chest,” Samandriel answered the unspoken question. 

         He continued, gracing the priest with an ageless smile.  Hearing the happiest angel describe human souls with such awe and reverence made Matt want to sink to his knees.  For the first time, he truly felt he was in the presence of something holy.  He closed his eyes, but still felt something like sunlight radiating from the young man.  “When I look at James Murphy I see the bright turquoise stone pulled from the earth, veins of tan and gold throughout.  Even the abomination, Sam Winchester…

         (And here Samandriel’s light flickered as he paused to cast a concerned glance at Pastor Jim who had loudly cleared his throat in annoyance at Sam’s nickname among the angels, but seeing that the minister appeared to suffer no lasting damage from the unholy noise, the angel proceeded none the wiser.)

         “…has a beautiful soul, like granite.  Tan and green and gray, flecked with Dean’s pure white and black rivers of Azazel’s poison.”

         “Why do Sam and I have pieces of Dean’s soul in ours?”

         “He gave them to you,” the angel said simply.  “He gave up another piece to Mithra.  I think there may even be one in his car.”

         “How?” Matt asked again.

         Uriel spoke up.  “He cannot bond with a car, Samandriel.  A car has no soul to bond with.”

         “Castiel said the car felt strange.”

         “Residual magic,” Uriel declared flatly.  “The blessed weapons, the blood of the supernatural, the grimoires and lore books and talismans that have been inside, of course it feels strange.  It needs purification just like this Earth.”  The dark skinned angel turned glowing eyes on Matt.  Unlike the warmth of Samandriel’s gaze, Matt’s skin burned like he’d been touched with dry ice and the smell of ozone stung his nose.  “Disgusting,” Uriel snarled.  “Samandriel has become infatuated with humanity.”

         “Father intended for us all to love his creations,” the teenaged angel defended himself.  “I enjoy watching them.  They amuse me.”

         “They are fascinating,” Castiel agreed softly remembering the depth of emotion and conflict he felt in the mind of the man who sat before him.

         “We’re not guinea pigs,” Matt snapped.

         “Amen,” echoed the priest.

         “No, you are insignificant bits of meat who live and die in the blink of my eye,” Uriel grumbled.  “And yet you have destroyed so much of our Father’s beautiful creation with your pride and your greed and your hate.”

         “We’ve had this discussion before, my friend.”  Matt was shocked when Pastor Murphy gently reprimanded the intimidating creature.  “I don’t disagree, but if you want humanity to be better, you angels should do more than watch and wait.  We humans _do_ more in the blink of your eye than any of your kind have done in a thousand years.”

         “Let’s hope I don’t choose to do nothing the next time Dean Winchester needs saving.”  With a huff, Uriel disappeared in a flutter of wings.

         “I think he may finally be warming up to me.”  It was clear the priest didn’t believe it.

         “I apologize for Uriel.”  Castiel was surprised he felt compelled to make an apology.  He had observed Uriel’s behavior for years and had never been troubled by it before.  But now that he had spent time, all be it only a day, in a human vessel; now that he had touched the minds of Jimmy Novak, Matt Murdock and James Murphy; now that the blind hero and the warrior priest had taken him to task at different times for heaven’s indifference and failures, now that he wanted The Righteous Man to see him and reach for him and bond with him the way he had bonded with Matt and with Mithra…now he felt shame.  It was not pleasant.  Yet again Castiel was amazed at the way human emotions affected the human body.  His shoulders felt heavy and his stomach ached under the burden of…feelings.

         Father Murphy waved off the apology.  “I lived through the sixties, Castiel.  I’ve dealt with my share of bigots.”

         The word smacked the blue-eyed angel hard.  “Heaven should be better than that.”

         Matt grunted.  “Maybe there’s hope.  You seem to be learning.”

         Castiel swore he felt his wings flutter at the compliment and felt the rush of his vessel’s blood to his face, something he knew now caused the skin there to turn red, an indication of embarrassment.  Weakness.  Blue eyes narrowed as he used his grace to heal the defect, returning his skin to its normal tone.  “You were asking about soul bonds.  Soul mates are rare.  They are one of God’s mysteries.  For one soul to make multiple bonds is…it should be impossible.  But The Righteous Man bonded with Sam when they were children.  We can only guess that is the reason Sam has not been completely corrupted.  We do not know why his soul chose yours, or why your soul accepted the bond.  And no human, not even a true vessel, should be able to bond with an angel or a god.”  Castiel studied the blind man wondering what made him worthy of such a gift, why he was chosen. 

         “Didn’t Mithra make that happen?”

         “Mithra does not have that power!” Castiel snapped with a crackle of static electricity.  “No angel does,” he clarified.  “Nor the gods created by angels.  Creating soulmates is beyond our power or Michael’s or even cupid arrows.”

         “Huh.”  Apparently even Pastor Jim could still be surprised after years in the know.  “That’s a real thing?  Cupid’s arrows?”

         Castiel’s mouth puckered in distaste.  “Cupids are the lowest rung of the angelic host.  They are…”

         “Even Uriel would rather hug a human than spend a day with the cupids,” Samandriel laughed.

         “They cry,” Castiel’s affronted scowl was almost laughable.

         “If Mithra can’t create a bond, then what’s this?” Matt bared his collarbone, reminding the angels of the sigil carved into his skin.  “And those golden threads Sama… the-angel-formerly-known-as-Alfie described.”

         “That is a bond between you, Dean, and Mithra, but that is not a soul bond.”

         “There’s a difference?”

         Castiel tilted his head, scrutinizing the human as if he were being deliberately dense.  “Of course.”

         “What.  Is.  The.  Difference.”  Matt looked down at the spoon he had further mangled in his frustration.  The priest offered him a spork and a smirk, both made of plastic.

         “Mithra has only created that type of bond twice in his history.  Once with two nephilim who survived the purge, and once more with demigods, the children born of gods, like Mithra, who were made by angels but had found vessels.  The mark on your chest connects both you and Dean to Mithra.  We do not know the full extent of the connection, but it is believed that those who share the mark with you can detect your stronger emotions.  It was particularly helpful in the heat of battle where bond mates fought in tandem and communicated without words.  It also was said to enhance sexual relations as well, though you have caused Dean to experience extremes of physical pleasure without Mithra’s assistance.”  Castiel bulled forward though Matt had begun choking on his own embarrassment.  “Through the bond you will be able to feel Dean’s arousal as your own and he will feel yours, creating a loop.  It should make your relations even more enjoyable.”

         Once the priest contained his laughter he pounded Matt on the back, “This is Castiel’s first time on Earth.  You’ll have to forgive him if his people skills need a bit of work.”

         “Where does Mithra fit in?”

         “I’m sure he’d love to fit into Dean,” Samandriel muttered.

         Pastor Jim rolled his eyes.  “Just because you’re in a teenage vessel, you don’t have to act like one.”

         Castiel again gave a confused head tilt.  The priest had quickly lost track of the number of times the garrison commander had used the gesture, but he still noticed.  Puppies did the same thing…so did birds of prey and velociraptors in that damn dinosaur movie.  Considering the gesture gave him goosebumps instead of warm fuzzies, Castiel was no puppy.

         “Mithra shares the bonds.”  That thought wasn’t pleasing to Castiel.  “He will feel what you feel.” 

         “Great.  Another angel voyeur.”

         Samandriel was unabashed enough to laugh.  Castiel carried on as if Matt’s statement were a mere comment on the weather.  “Mithra has also inscribed your bone.  The sigils now engraved on your ribs prevent witches, angels and demons alike from locating you, even through enchantment or supernatural methods.  We assume he has marked The Righteous…Dean…similarly.” 

         “Can he find me here?”

         “This house is warded and the concealment charm placed on your ribs works against him as well, but…”

         “But?”

         “As the connection between you grows stronger Mithra will be able to find you if he chooses to do so, or at least communicate with you that he is searching so that you may reveal your location to him.”

         “How?  Is he listed in the yellow pages?”

         “I do not understand that reference.”

         Matt’s palm covered his face as Alfie began to cackle.  “How do I _reveal myself_ to him?”

         “As you would with any angel or god, you pray,” Castiel instructed as if Matt was dimwitted.

         Matt shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  “Pray?  Like what?  Dear Mithra, who art in New York City, I’m being held hostage in…”  His mouth was suddenly covered by a large hand.

         “That’s exactly what he means,” the priest cautioned, keeping his hand firmly over Matt’s flapping jaw.

         “No,” Castiel disagreed.  “He lacked intent.  It is why God does not respond to the many times his name is uttered during human intercourse or fits of vexation.  To be heard you must have intent.”

         “Good to know,” Matt ducked his burning face for another bite of the stew Pastor Jim had set in front of him.

         “You are so going to utter a prayer the next time The Righteous Man has his mouth on your…” Samandriel cut himself off with laughter as both Matt and the priest turned brilliant shades of crimson.

         “There won’t be another time.”  Matt waved a hand, nearly smacking the priest in the face.  “Dean wouldn’t choose to soul bond with another man.  Sam told me all about it.  He didn’t have any choice in this bond either.”

         “Sam…”  The priest heaved a great sigh.  “Sammy isn’t always as right as he thinks he is.  Especially where Dean is concerned.  And Dean has always been very good at lying, to himself and everyone else.”

         “So this doesn’t surprise you?  Me and Dean.  Love at first sight?”

         The priest gave another long-suffering sigh as he scratched at his beard.  “Does it surprise me that you’re a man?  No.  I’ve watched that boy grow up.  Heard his confessions too.”

         Matt felt a knot in his chest loosen slightly.  Only slightly.  “Real people don’t fall in love overnight.”  Softer.  Pleading.  “I can’t live like he does.  I can’t leave Hell’s Kitchen and he can’t stay.  We don’t belong together.”

*****

         Dean blinked awake at the smell of pie fresh from the oven.  He blinked again trying to remember where he was and what had happened, but momentarily gave up on that effort in favor of groaning in pure bliss as he considered staying in this bed forever.  The mattress was firm, but then soft in all the right spots.  The pillow and blankets were downy and warm and brought back memories of his mother’s laughter as he made a nest for himself under the pile of fresh laundry she had dumped onto her bed to fold.  Closing his eyes, he may have (snuggled) burrowed deeper into the perfect nest of linens that surrounded him.  That bed might even be better than Matt’s…

         Matt!  Matt was howling in pain, and Dean was burning, and there was an icepick stabbing into his brain…  The memories came back so fast they sucked all the oxygen from his lungs.  His eyes were wide open in silent twin screams that he couldn’t give voice to because he was going to die from lack of air.  A sudden gust of pie scented air struck him straight in the face, causing him to jerk and make a reflexive gasp that broke the seal on his lungs and they began to function once more. 

         As he filled his burning lungs with delicious breaths, he stared at the pure white covers and pillows that billowed around him like clouds.  Fueled by Dean’s steady breaths, his brain began to kick back on-line…this wasn’t his motel…this wasn’t a hospital…this wasn’t Matt’s…he’d bet all the cheeseburgers in the world and even a piece of pie that this wasn’t Josie’s…  He raised his head.  The walls of this room were a rough white plaster with wide planks of dark stained, hand-hewn wood making the floor, framing the open casement window and supporting the vaulted ceiling high overhead.  Outside the window was an Easter egg blue sky and tall trees in shades of green that would make an artist weep.  The snow white hide of an impossibly huge animal, an ox…or a bull, maybe, served as a rug.  A summer breeze sailed through the window bearing the song of birds and gurgling waters in its wake, and making the gauzy white curtains dance and sway where they hung from the corners of an ornate iron bed so big that Matt and the Impala could have joined him in the nest and there still would have been room for Sam, not that Dean wanted Sam in bed…or the Impala…  Though making out with Matt on the hood of the Impala (naked because, you know, jeans have rivets, and those things can do some serious damage to a vintage paint job) could be the stuff dreams were made of too…  He closed his eyes, made a wish and opened them again.  Nope.  Still in the dreamland bedroom.  Still alone. 

         He had no idea how he got there, and those weren’t the sights or sounds of Hell’s Kitchen outside the open window.  Deep down, he knew those things were problematic, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  Once more he filled his lungs with that smell that promised comfort and home and safety. 

         Gentle sunlight filtered through the sheer material surrounding the bed and caressed Dean’s face.  The touch was so soothing he found himself stretching and baring his neck for more.  The sunlight obliged, warming his skin as it slowly traveled down the column of his neck to kiss the mark that rested right below his collarbone.  The sunlight smiled as the boy shivered in pleasure, breath stuttering, and his right hand gathering the bedclothes into his fist.  Pleased, the light continued to warm the mark as Dean’s dusky pink lips opened to allow a fluttering breath to escape like a tiny bird from a cage chased by a rosy tongue leaving a glistening trail of dew behind.  Constellations of freckles dappled golden skin and the light numbered every one, committing them to memory.

       Dean realized he was naked when the summer breeze touched his sun-warmed chest, causing his nipples to quickly pebble up into small but proud nubs.  Reaching for one of the pure white blankets to cover himself, he realized his arms were bound.  A pitiful sound of fear fled from his mouth before he could stop it, his heart pounding like it could break free from his chest and find a safe haven.  The moment he began to tug at the invisible bonds, they disappeared.  Kicking and twisting, Dean struggled to free himself from the tangle of bedclothes, dumping himself onto the floor where he scooted away from the bed like a crab on speed until his back hit the wall, feet scrabbling against the floor as if he could push himself through the wall if they would just find purchase.     

         The sunlight followed his retreat.  Dean remembered the unnatural golden light swallowing him and Matt whole before the pain had brought them both to their knees.  _Oh, fuck.  Not again._ He braced himself, ready to be overtaken by the agony.  When it didn’t come he allowed himself to pry open one eye to peek through a space between the arms he had thrown over his head.  The light had stopped just inches from his toes.  Still he curled them under his feet, increasing the distance from the light just a fraction of an inch more.

 _I’m sorry._ Dean heard the voice as if it were his own thought.  _I’m sorry._ The voice repeated.  Dean decided to ignore it in favor of thumping his head against the plaster wall, hoping the pain would wake him up.  _Please.  I’m sorry.  I can’t bear the thought of my mistake causing you more pain._

         “Not pain.  This is a dream.”  Dean responded, eyes clinched shut once again, arms pressed tight to the sides of his head.

_Fear is a type of pain._

         That wouldn’t do.  The voices in his head got away with calling him a lot of names, but never a coward.  Dean’s eyes flew open and the anger sparked behind the emeralds.  “Fuck you.  I’m not afraid.”  The sunbeam near his feet received the brunt of his glare.  “Give me my clothes back before I get fucking splinters in my ass.”

         Instantly he was dressed in a well-worn tee with the Led Zeppelin Icarus gracing the front.  On his lower half were soft cotton sweat pants.  Dean shifted as he examined himself, feeling his rump slide too easily inside the sweats.  Knowing he would regret the decision, he pulled back the waistband of the pants and saw he’d been dressed in a pair of satiny panties.  Even as he watched, his cock began to fill and strain against the fabric and Dean shifted again, feeling the cool slide of the satin.

_The color matches your eyes._

         Dean had been complimented on his eyes many times, but they’d never really seemed that remarkable to him.  No way were they the bright jewel-toned green that would match the skimpy undergarment.

 _Matt’s right.  You’re shit at accepting compliments._  

         Not a sex dream.  Not a nightmare.  Probably the result of one too many pieces of Beverly’s awesome pie.  That’s okay.  He could deal with the random crazy-ass weird dream so long as no one tied him down and no middle aged waitress came chasing after him with a cock cage.

         Now the voice in his head was laughing.  And it wasn’t cruel or mocking…more like fond amusement.  That was new.

_Those other voices are the lies you tell yourself, Dean.  They’re not real._

         “And you are?”

_I am._

         “Mithra.”  The name appeared on the tip of Dean’s tongue, tasting of pie and summer sun and the memories of a perfect Fourth of July and just him and Sammy under a sky splashed with color.  Dean gave his head a shake to clear out the technicolor scene.  “I’m dreaming.”

         The voice made a wishy-washy sound.  _Dreamscape._

         “That sounds like Disney mumbo-jumbo.”

_If you want me to call you Princess, you just have to ask._

         “I’ve met gods before.  They’re not usually so snarky.”

_You’d rather I try to kill you?_

         “You’re not going to?”

_I’m here to help._

         Dean snorted ungraciously.  “That’s what they all say.”

_Really?  Rumor has it that you’re a decapitate first kind of guy.  I doubt they got to say very much._

         “You’re still talking.”

         Once again there was the sound of laughter.  _And you called me snarky?  Though I must say I like snarky you better than frightened you._

         “I don’t like being tied up,” Dean pouted, blushing at the reminder.  Some of John Winchester’s most _creative_ training sessions involved Dean being bound…  The memories turned the blush into a pallor and Dean shuddered.  “Where are we?” Dean waved a hand, gesturing to the room without taking his eyes off the sunbeam.

_A safe place.  A place we created._

         “We?”

_You and I._

         “Is it real?”

_No.  You were dreaming.  I was able to join you and make a few changes._

         “The panties?” Dean produced his own bitchface.

_More than that.  And you know you love them, princess._

         Dean chose to ignore that.  Little Dean had other ideas.  The god’s indulgent laughter rang in Dean’s skull once more.  And Dean knew he should be outraged and violated and pissing his pants terrified…but he wasn’t.  And that should scare him even more…but it didn’t.  “Why are we here?”

_Matt was right.  You need sleep.  This way your body can rest, but we can still talk._

         “Talk?”  Dean huffed as he cast a glance at the bed.  He could almost see the sunbeam shrug in an unremorseful apology and glow brighter.

_Your body was made to be touched by an angel, Dean.  You were in my nest and in my wings.  You gave me a piece of your soul, and I want to fill you with my grace until pours from your mouth, erupts from your cock, and shoots from your fingers and toes.  Until your eyes shine like suns and every being in every realm trembles at the power of our union._

         It was Dean’s turn to laugh.  Watching the beautiful human soul rolling on the floor in side-splitting gales of laughter would have been adorable…if it hadn’t followed Mithra’s attempt at heartfelt poetic expression.  “You…said…touched by a-an…angel,” Dean gasped, heels pounding the floor.

         Mithra decided he’d coddled The Righteous Brat long enough.  Dean yelped as he was transported back to the bed in a snap.  Another snap and he was pinned to the mattress.  On his stomach.  Naked.  No longer afraid, Dean squirmed, but kept laughing until the warmth of the sun on his exposed ass grew uncomfortably hot.  “Dude!  Come on!  It was…Owfuck…  It was funny!”

         The god continued to set Dean’s ass on fire.  _I am not amused, and I am not Dude.  I’m descended from the grace of Michael the Archangel.  I’ve been venerated by emperors and generals, fucked the goddess Venus, and sent the devil to hell.  There is a limit to my patience._

         The heat began to burn and then to sting.  Dean kicked his legs and tried to twist himself free.  “Let go of me, damnit!”  That was not the answer to give an impatient god.  Dean howled in frustration and discomfort as the heat kicked up another notch.  “Ow…fuckfuckFUCK…Just stop!  Stop!  Alright!  I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!”  The addition of pain stopped, but Dean still felt like his ass had been on the receiving end of John Winchester’s belt.  He let his face sink into a pillow, trying to discretely wipe away tears and snot.  The breeze returned, ruffling his hair and soothing his stinging bottom.

_Our first fight._

         “And the last,” Dean mumbled into the pillow.

 _I doubt it.  And I’d be disappointed if it was._ While Dean wondered what the hell that meant, he realized he was once again wearing the Zeppelin tee.  His butt was still bare…and sore.  _It will be for awhile._ There was a chuckle.  _Unfortunately for your sit spots, princess, both of your bond mates enjoy turning your ass red._

         That was confusing enough to stop Dean’s sniffles.  “Bond mates?”

         Instead of words, the god let knowledge flow into Dean’s mind.  Knowledge of the soul bonds Dean himself had made and the sigil Mithra used to connect the god, the Righteous Man and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.  “Stop!  I’m gonna…”  He felt the room sway and saliva pooling in his mouth.

 _No, you’re not.  Stop fighting.  Focus on the information._   The voice of Mithra was stern, but not cruel.  The flow slowed, but it didn’t stop.  Dean swallowed and tried to do as he was instructed.  _Good.  Breathe deep._ When the sharing stopped, Dean realized he was shaking.  The sunlight stroked over his back.  _You took that so well, Dean.  Soon it will be easier.  You’re already doing better than Matt.  He can only detect my emotions.  I can’t speak with him the way I do with you, and I haven’t tried to share knowledge with him yet._

         “Where is he?”

_Try to ask the question with your mind, not your voice._

_Where’s Matt?_ Dean accomplished the task easily, feeling a tiny seed of pride sprout in his chest.

_Excellent!  Do it again._

         Dean frowned, raising his head off the pillow and turning his head to glare into the sunlight.  _You’re avoiding the question._

         The human swore a cloud entered the room.  _He’s not hurt.  We’d both feel it if he was._

_‘S good to know.  Still doesn’t answer the question.  Where.  Is.  Matt._

_Someplace far.  And heavily warded.  I felt the bond stretch and then I felt nothing.  He stepped outside and an angel seized him._   Knowledge of angelic travel flitted into Dean’s consciousness along with Mithra’s words.

         Dean struggled to rise, wincing as his bottom reminded him of his reprimand.  “Aren’t you an angel?”  He spoke the words aloud.

 _Angels were made by God.  I was made by Michael.  My kind aren’t allowed in heaven._   The feelings that accompanied Mithra’s explanation tasted like sour wine on Dean’s tongue.

         “I’m sorry.”  He reached a hand up into a beam of sunlight, dust motes bright and swirling like sparks rising from a fire.  “How do we get him back?”

         Dean felt a nudge against his mind as Mithra gently reminded him, _Silently._

         He nodded his understanding, then found himself wrapped in sunlight and clad back in the satin panties and sweatpants amidst the nest of pillows and blankets.  A small whine of discomfort accompanied the shifting of his rump.

_Matt is fighting the bond.  If he wanted to be found, nothing could shield him from us._

         As if the memory was his own, Dean observed the conversation between Matt, Foggy and Sam.  He felt Matt’s anger and confusion, just as Mithra had.  Dean gave another whine as he felt the pain of rejection.  

_He loves you.  It would be impossible for him not to._

_Then he’s right.  I took away his free will…and Sam’s._   Questions flooded Dean’s mind.  So many the god couldn’t keep them all straight, but outwardly, the human was silent and still but for a jiggling knee and the teeth that bit into his lip.  Doubt.  Fear.  Guilt.  It had been a thousand years since Mithra had tasted human emotions so powerful.  He could feel the itch under Dean’s skin calling for blood and pain and oblivion.   

 _No!_ The god’s shout raised every hair on Dean’s head.  _It’s not your fault!_   _You don’t choose when you are born or where.  You didn’t choose your green eyes or the freckles on your skin.  You didn’t choose to lose your mother or to have a father who dealt with his own pain by inflicting pain on you.  You don’t choose to become ill or choose to get well.  Sam chose to follow you.  Matt has choices to make too.  Free Will isn’t picking the music, Dean, it’s leading the dance.  We are all masters of our own dance._

*****

         “How do I have free will if the choice to bond with Dean was made for me?”  Matt paced the tiny kitchen with the irritation of a lion in a lunchbox.

         “You do not wish to be bonded to The Righteous Man?  But you left your marks and your scent on his flesh?  You threatened me!”  Castiel tried to remind himself of his journey into Matt’s head.  How the human process of decision-making was full of emotion and conflict.  How he had felt sorry for God’s beloved creations.  He wasn’t feeling sympathy right now.  Or wonder.  He wanted to shake Matt Murdock until his teeth rattled.  The Righteous Man, the purest soul Castiel had ever seen outside of heaven had chosen Matt Murdock, bound their souls together, submitted his body for punishment and sexual gratification, and dared to love and to trust this man.  Matt Murdock had spent one day in Dean’s presence and dared to act as if he knew better than heaven how to protect and cherish The Righteous Man.  Now, still thinking he knew better than Castiel and all of heaven’s host, this man planned to hurt Dean, to punish the pure soul for loving and seeking love in return.  The lights in the room began to flicker as Castiel called his weapon to him. 

         “Matt…” Pastor Jim took a step closer to the pacing human, pinning the angel with a glare.

         “Can you break the bond?  The connection?  Either of them?” Matt’s hair stood up wildly from his scalp in tufts where he’d been running his hands through it.

          Castiel reflected for a moment before giving an answer.  “No.  The false angel, Mithra, has marked you.  The scent alone is a warning to others that you have been claimed.” 

         Though he had showered, Matt had assumed the lingering aroma of summer blackberries and laurel was a vestige of his contact with Dean.  He’d grown accustomed to the change in Dean’s scent, even if he disliked the fact that it meant some other being had called dibs on his lover.  To know he was marked as well caused molten fury to bubble up into his chest.  “I don’t belong to anyone.”

         The angel tilted his head, pausing a beat, before pushing Matt’s big red button.  “A claim is not a sign of weakness, Mithra is not Roscoe Sweeney and you are not your father, Matt Murdock.”

         Fists slammed onto the table with a bang that made dishes jump and the cheaply made table sag an inch lower.  “Stay out of my head!”

         Castiel blinked in confusion.  “I was not in your head.  You were telegraphing your thoughts on the matter quite clearly.”

         Samandriel nodded his agreement.  “You’re a loud thinker.”

         “Anyone care to let me know what’s going on?”  The priest set a fresh mug of coffee on the table for Matt.

         Matt caught the movement of Castiel preparing to share the sad tale of the demise of Jack Murdock and raised his hand, less of a demand and more of a plea.  To his surprise, the angel complied with a barely there dip of his head.  “My Dad was a boxer in Hell’s Kitchen.  Not all the fights were honest.  He did what he was told.  Until the night he didn’t.  That was the night they killed him.”

         “I guess we all have Daddy issues,” Samandriel muttered.

         A hiss of bitter, twisted laughter slipped between Matt’s lips, becoming an uncontrollable storm of dark humor that made his chest hurt and brought tears to his eyes.  The tears lingered when the laughter finally fizzled out but Matt hid them behind his glasses and a fake smile that fooled no one.

         “So you do the opposite of your father, is that it?  You pick your own battles.  Bow down to no one.  Answer to no one.”  The priest gave a dry chuckle that contained as little humor as Matt’s laughter.  “Mithra is either a comedian, a sadist, or a genius.”  He swung a chair around and sat.  “So how does this work…you and Dean?  I’m curious.”

         “I answer to no one,” Matt reminded him, a twist of a smirk on his face.

         The older man wasn’t amused, and, when he next spoke, he sounded very much like Father Lantom.  “You know what Dean is, and why he’s important.  I’m fairly certain you have an idea at least of who Dean is, who his father and fate shaped him to be.”

         Swallowing a sudden lump, Matt wiped his mouth.  “Is this where you ask me about my intentions?”

         “No, son.  This is where I tell you to walk away.  No hard feelings.”

         The breath left Matt’s lungs like he’d been punched.  “But…  The…The bond,” he stuttered.  “Dean…?”

         “The bond isn’t your fault and it’s not your problem to fix.”  The priest offered the absolution Matt had been searching for.  “Neither is Dean.”  It wasn’t an absolution, it was a condemnation.    

         “What will happen?”  Matt didn’t know if he felt hope or dread, all he knew was that being apart from Dean, even if he knew it was for the best, made something ache deep inside him.  Being with the sweet and surly hunter flipped some switch inside Matt he thought he’d turned off for good.  Dean lit him up inside.  And he knew that he was a good influence on Dean as well.

         Castiel frowned.  “If you do not use the connection Mithra has given you, it will never fully develop.  Only the strongest emotions will pass through.  And it will end when Dean dies.  He is the glue.  Not you.  And Not Mithra.  So long as Dean lives the two of you will be connected to him and to each other.”

         “Matt, it’s a bond, a connection, not a commitment,” the priest said gently.  “You have a home, friends, a career in New York.  No one is expecting you to turn your back on all of that and hop in the Impala to go fight demons by Dean’s side.  Your safety…”

         “My safety?  How many times have you people pulled Dean back from death?  Am I going to feel it every time he dies?  Or every time you let him sink so low he wants to?”

         “So you stay…and soon you’ll resent him every bit as much as Sam does.”

         Matt knew it was true.

         “Just because you were meant to love him, doesn’t mean you’re meant to stay.  Whether you do or not…  That’s your decision.  There’s your Free Will.”

         Blinking, Matt realized he had no idea how long he had been standing there, head bowed, leaning against the kitchen counter, but his hands ached from the tight grip on the formica.  Taking a deep breath he tasted pine in the air, something that only happened in Hell’s Kitchen when Thanksgiving rolled around and all the Christmas tree vendors had stacks of evergreen, tied with cord and waiting to be purchased.  Matt couldn’t remember the last time he put out a Christmas tree.  He’d never been this far from New York.

         “Why did you bring me here?” he asked suddenly.

         “For information.  With the wards Mithra established no angel could enter the building or discern what was happening inside.  We knew about the soul bond, but now we know about the connection to Mithra as well, and we know about the sigils inscribed upon your bone.  We know that the demon blood has been exorcised from Sam Winchester, and that your group has been following the instructions from Father Murphy and Bobby Singer to prepare the _hom_ for Dean to drink.”

         “That’s still the best plan?  A god and three angels can’t handle this without putting Dean on the frontline?”

         Castiel at least looked ashamed.  “Our orders have not changed.”

         “The angel blade Samandriel left behind can kill a demon,” the priest advised.

         “Does Dean know that?”

         “No,” Father Murphy admitted. 

         “Sam said that thing they’re making, the goat milk thing, that it’s going to make Dean hallucinate and puke.  How’s he supposed to fight?”

         “The daeva is defeated by a union of god and man.  The potion will let Mithra use Dean’s body for as long as the effects last.”

         “Use his body…”  Outrage and fury went to war against reason and control.  Matt choked on his words for a moment, just shaking his head.  “No!”  His feet quickly ate up the distance to Samandriel.  “Take me back.”

*****

           


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

 

       Even in his dreams, Dean slept.  Mithra held the Righteous Soul, surrounding the shimmering white light, the way an oyster protects a pearl.  As he watched, tendrils of soul stroked and twined around portions of his grace like a young vine or the grasping fingers of an infant.  Mithra’s grace flared dangerously as he pondered the plans heaven and hell had for this beautiful creature, and the mess they had already made of his life.  He wasn’t foolish enough to think that his act of defiance had convinced either side to rethink Battle Plan Apocalypse…  Not yet.  But Dean was stronger than they realized.  And so was Mithra.

_You’ve given enough, little one.  Time to take.  Time to let me in._

       A small beam of light stroked the boy’s cheek, day old stubble glowing ginger in the sunshine.  It was an instinct older than humanity itself, and, deeply asleep and cradled as he was, the young soul responded as expected.  When Dean turned his head towards the touch and parted his lips, the sunbeam slipped inside his warm mouth and released a drop of grace onto his tongue.  The power of Mithra given to him by Michael and bestowed upon Michael by God Himself flowed into the soul of Dean Winchester.  One drop.  The white soul latched onto the source and taking more.  It was all the consent the god needed.  Dean swallowed it down, greedily pulling more from the ray of light that pulsed between his lips like a living thing and tasted like...  Salvation.  The tears shed by The Righteous Man turned to rivers of gold.  A sob tore from the depths of the childlike soul, a longing so intense the god felt the stinging prickle of Dean’s tears and he knew that, wherever he was, Matt could feel it too.  

 _It’s for you, Dean.  All yours.  Take it.  It's not going to be snatched away.  For once in your life, you don’t have to share.  You don’t have to worry about the cost.  You don’t have to save some for later.  Take it all.  It’s yours._  

       He did.

       Entering a human vessel who had imbibed the sacred drink was pleasurable, but entering Dean made those past experiences seem like fucking while wearing a woolen condom, mittens, body suit, and a blindfold.  The _hom_ was like a barrier of insulation, protecting the mortal from the full power of Mithra’s grace, and even then, Mithra only sent a portion of himself, enough to exert control while his consciousness remained outside the vessel.  But Dean was his true vessel; neither needed protection from the other.  Mithra held nothing back and Dean welcomed him, easily swallowing every bit of the god’s grace. The direct soul to grace to body contact was pleasure so rare and forbidden Mithra couldn’t help but unleash a roar the angels could hear.  A roar that shook heaven and hell and, even a thousand miles away, sent Matt Murdock to his knees.  

       In the dreamscape, Dean was once again naked, basking in the warm touch of sunlight.  His quiet panting became a single treble note drawn out long, the sound like the first ray of morning light striking the horizon.  His lips formed a perfect _O_ of surprise as the golden caress found a smooth nipple, lavishing the sensitive skin with attention, causing butterflies to bloom in his stomach and electricity to gather somewhere lower.  The light continued to bathe that one nipple until it was red as a Lincoln rose, until a breath of air like the brush of a feather on the tender bud made the beautiful human wail, back arching off the bed, legs falling open in invitation to the god.

       Wishing he could taste as well as touch, Mithra accepted the invitation, worshiping the uncovered treasure.  To Dean, the touch of grace to the manifestation of his body in the dreamscape felt like wings one moment then snaps and hums of electricity the next, all of it pleasure, building and building.  The touches covered his body, on him and in him, everywhere at once.  He wasn’t being fucked, he was being possessed…and God was it good.    

       As The Righteous Man suckled from the ray of sunshine like a needy child (a fact he didn’t need to know), the dreamscape blurred with reality.  Dean moaned softly in his sleep, the first sign of life Sam had seen in hours.  “Dean?”  Sam fell back with a shout, knocking the chair over in his haste as his brother’s eyes were no longer green but gold and streams of molten sunlight ran like tears down his cheeks.  The small bedroom upstairs from the bar was still there, Sam could touch the wall behind him and the leg of the upturned chair to confirm it was real.  He could see Dean on the full sized bed under Josie’s cheerful yellow chenille bedspread, but he could also see another room with white walls and an ornate bed piled with a nest of blankets and pillows and Dean’s naked body splayed out and writhing in ecstasy.  “Dean!”    

       The dark blond head tossed back and forth and the human began to mewl and silently beg in desperation.  In the dreamscape, the spectacle of the Righteous Man glistening as he thrashed and cried at the painful brink of pleasure, light reflecting off the sweat, tears, and come that adorned his flesh, his body filled and claimed…  For a moment as soul and grace merged, Dean’s focus shifted and he saw himself through the eyes of the god as words entered his mind that could never be his, not even in a dream…

_beautiful…precious…marvelous…_ _Mine._

       The light pulsed within him.  There was a knot at the base of Dean’s spine so tightly wound and so hot, the prospect of its release terrified Dean.  He couldn’t do it on his own.  “Please.”  His precious one’s plea made Mithra burn brighter.  “Help…”

       Sam heard Dean begging for his help, the light surrounding the dual images of his big brother was so bright, he had to close his eyes as he began to recite the words to the exorcism.

 _Come for me, princess._   The voice rang in Dean’s ears like the chimes in Pastor Jim’s garden, a sound from the happier moments of his childhood.  Moments where he was safe and wanted.

       The knot broke free and the ball of sunlight inside him exploded into a supernova, everything so hot and bright, Dean couldn’t hear his own scream, couldn’t separate the heat of the sun from the fire within him, couldn’t breathe.  He was tossed from crest to crest on tidal waves of pleasure so intense he was sure he’d broken apart and emptied out his very soul into the cosmos.   

       “Bes’ dream ev’r.”  Dean slurred drunkenly, his rarely revealed dimples puckering his cheeks as he smiled.

 _Mmmmm_ , Mithra purred in agreement.  _Who knew you were a screamer, princess?_

       Dean bolted up, in the process headbutting Sam who had begun to cautiously approach the bed.  The blow didn’t phase Dean, the smaller man hardly felt the collision that sent Sam staggering backwards with bright spots in his vision, tears in the corner of his eyes, and blood beginning to trickle from his nose.  “Jesus, Sammy!”  Dean hopped out of the bed, quickly stepping over to where Sam was leaning against the wall.  “You know better than…"

       “Dean…?”  Sam’s fox eyes peered at him before flinching as a flash of lightning illuminated the window beside the bed.  “Dean?”  Footsteps were already pounding up the stairs in response to the sound of Dean’s screamed pleasure.

       “Yeah?”  Dean stared at his brother in confusion at Sam’s expression of awe and relief.  There was a lump underneath the rising red goose egg on his forehead and a smear of blood on his upper lip.  “Sammy?  Are you okay?”

       For once, the younger Winchester didn’t protest the nickname.  The bed nearly collapsed from the weight as a pouncing moose tackled Dean, the larger brother engulfing the smaller man in his arms.  “De…  I’m so sorry.  I’m sorry.  I can’t believe the things I said…”

       “‘S okay, Sammy,” Dean practically sang.  “I’m okay, little brother.  Sticks and stones, you know?”  He continued to offer assurances, petting Sam’s too long hair as the younger Winchester snuffled against his chest. 

       “Uhh…” Mahoney burst into the room with his service weapon in hand, only to stop short, cheeks tinged red.  Foggy slammed into the detective’s back, dropping one of the iron fireplace pokers as he accidently shoved Mahoney further into the room.

       “What?” Dean demanded, looking over Sam’s head.  “Surely a pussy like you has seen a chick-flick moment before?”  The cop gave him a one fingered salute as he holstered his gun and the lawyer picked up the poker.  Dean let the hug drag out longer than usual…for Sam, of course, before reluctantly pushing the moose away as the two other men in the room began to shift uncomfortably.  “Ew, Sam, get a fuckin’ Kleenex, bitch.”

       Sam still clung to him like a barnacle, a watery snort of a laugh adding to the filth on Dean’s shirt.  “Jerk.”  Sam squeezed Dean harder.  “I almost lost you again, De.”

       “You can’t get rid of me that easy, Sammy.”  As soon as Sam released him and pulled back a bit, Dean took a moment to give his little brother the once over.  “Are you okay?”  He brushed the long strands of chestnut colored hair from his brother’s face.  As his fingers brushed across Sam’s forehead, Dean felt a flutter and warmth in his chest that traveled like a flaming butterfly to the tips of the fingers touching Sam and then passed from his body into his brother’s.  Both Winchesters’ eyes widened dramatically and they pushed away from each other, Sam falling off one side of the bed and Dean practically leaping off the other, hands travelling to the smalls of their backs where they usually stashed their guns.  Only Sam came up with a weapon, Dean’s had been removed when they carried him to bed. 

       “What the hell, Sam?  Drop it!” Mahoney’s training took over as he pulled his gun out, and aimed it at the taller Winchester.

       Slowly Dean moved his hands in front of him, palms out towards Sam.

       “What was that?” Sam demanded, his free hand touching his forehead and finding the swelling lump and the associated pain were gone.

       “I don’t know,” Dean insisted.

       “How did you do that?”

       “I don’t know,” Dean repeated.  Green eyes darted around the room.  “Where’s Matt?”  Even with the gun trained on his chest, Dean turned to the door.

       “Don’t move!” Sam shouted at Dean and Mahoney shouted at Sam as Sam took a step towards his brother.

       “Matt!” Dean added his shout to the chaos even though he was afraid he knew the answer.

        _Easy princess_ , Mithra’s voice filled Dean’s head.  _We’ll get him back.  He couldn’t block that out._

Sam watched Dean’s eyes grow distant, losing focus as a scowl took over his face.  “Dean!”

       Not a dream.  Dean was talking to a god in his fucking _head_.  This. Was. Not. A. Dream. …  “How did you…?”  Dean didn’t know if it was panic or the god possessing his body who cut off his words.           

 _Breathe, little one.  Breathe for me, Dean._  

       Dean obeyed the command, wondering if it was even possible for him to refuse.

 _Yes.  That was your choice._   Mithra answered his musings.  _But I would have taken over before you hurt yourself._

“Is that a threat?”

       “What?”  Three voices responded to Dean’s question.

The god growled.  _No threat.  I **will** take over if you’re in danger.  And I will burn your ass again if you need to be reminded to speak to me with your mind.  I’m trying to keep you safe!  Even in New York City carrying on conversations with the voice in your head can get you locked in a mental ward, and I believe hunters like yourself aren’t even that tolerant, are they?_

 _No._ Dean admitted with all the grace of a pulled tooth, but he followed Mithra's instruction so the god counted it as a victory.

        _What was that, princess?_

 _No…sir._   The first word was spoken with the tone of a pout, the second with a smug little sparkle in the depths of his soul.

        _Wrong mate.  That word’s not going to twist me around your little finger the way it does Matt._

_Mate?_

_There is a gun pointed at us, princess, not that it would kill us, but it'd hurt like a bitch.  Can we have this conversation later?_

“Dean!”  The volume of Sam’s shout caught the attention of both god and man, and was a sure sign that Sam had already called his name multiple times and been ignored.  Finally seeing signs of coherence in his brother’s eyes, the taller Winchester steadied his gun.  “What’s happening?”

       “Drop the gun, Sam!” Brett repeated his command.  

       Sam growled, keeping his gun trained on his brother.  “Something’s not right with Dean.”

       It was a sign of the cop’s professionalism that he didn’t respond with one of the snappy insults he enjoyed throwing in Dean’s direction.  “Drop the gun and we’ll talk about it.”

       Sam kept the gun trained on Dean.  “Foggy, run the tests.”

       “We ran a hundred tests on him and Matt both,” the long-haired attorney complained, but he was already lowering the poker and fishing in his pocket for a vial of holy water.

       “Look at him,” Sam argued, gesturing to Dean with the gun.  “He knows.”

       Brett let his eyes flick to the other Winchester who was too red-faced to be clueless.  “Dean?”

       “I don’t know anything!”

       “He healed me,” Sam’s tone was accusatory, as if Dean had slapped him or spit on him.

       “He what?”

       “We hit our heads when he jumped out of bed, and he touched me and the bump and the pain and the bloody nose…it all just disappeared.”

       Brett didn’t know if he was more surprised by the allegation or Sam’s reaction to something seemingly so benign…or to the fact that neither was the strangest thing that had happened so far that night. 

       Sam shook off the cop’s skepticism.  “Humans can’t heal without supernatural help.  Dean knows that.  After Roy LeGrange, he knows that.”

       “Sammy…”

       “But the wards…?  You said nothing could get in here!”  Brett kept his gun on the younger Winchester.

       “Unless he was already here,” Foggy put the pieces together.  “Mithra.”

       “How?”  Brett demanded, gun now swinging in an arc from one Winchester to the other.

       “Are you crazy?” Dean shouted.  “Where’s Matt?”

       “You tell us,” Sam steadied the weapon.

       “Sammy…”

       “Don’t Sammy me.  You’re not Dean!”

       “For such a smart guy, you’re wrong.  Again.”  Foggy took a step back and this time Brett’s gun didn’t move off of Dean.  Though they hadn’t known the Winchester’s long, they knew Sam was right. 

       Mithra had taken over and instead of rage or fear, Dean felt…relief.  He let himself drift for a moment, enjoying the peace of a burden lifted, before he felt a tug and found himself pulled into an invisible embrace.  Vaguely he realized that Sam was talking and he was responding…not him…Mithra.  So the feeling…?  Dean closed his eyes and welcomed the sensations that he knew weren’t from the real world, when he chose to look again it was with the eyes of knowledge, of spirit, or soul.  He looked down at the shimmering white light that he instinctively knew was his soul if only because it was so much smaller than the golden light that engulfed the white flame. 

        _Dean.  Your trust makes me so happy, little one, but I want you with me.  I want you awake.  We do this together.  We’re stronger together._

       “What gave me away?”  Not-Dean asked and suddenly they noted that the set of his shoulders was different, less tense, not curled slightly in or hunched slightly up as if always expecting the other shoe to fall by way of a kick; his eyes met theirs easily with no fear or shame and stopped scanning between the three of them for body language indicating the decision had been made to attack.  Mostly the give-away had been in a single word.  _Again._   The inflection and the word itself smacking too much of hostility and insult and a lack of humor.  Dean didn’t talk to Sam like that.

       “Where’s Dean?” Sam demanded.

       “He’s here.  He’s safe.”

       “And Matt?”

       “Not here, but not hurt.  Not my fault either, by the way.  I don’t control the God Squad.  They’d probably smite you for even thinking such a thing.”  Not-Dean gave a very Dean-like smirk, “They’re not known for their sense of humor.”

       “Angels?” Sam sought confirmation though the look on his face clearly conveyed that he didn’t believe it.

       “Yes.”  Surprisingly Mithra could carry on a conversation with Sam in the physical plane and still offer support and words of praise to Dean’s soul as it struggled back to consciousness.  Dean grumbled.  He felt like he was swimming through honey, thick and golden and incredibly slow, swimming towards the voice.  As he reached his goal he felt another embrace, a gush of the god’s pride through the bond, and an invisible kiss to the side of his head…but only in his mind.  _This is so weird, dude._

Dean felt his ass tingle, which was quite a feat considering he still felt detached from his body.   _Okay, okay, not dude.  So what do I call you?  Ra?_

 _Don’t!_ Dean could swear Mithra shuddered. _He also belongs to my father.  I don't want him deciding to join us._

_Mithy?_

_Just. No._

_Mithra just doesn’t flow easy off the tongue, dude._

_I’m not…_

        _M?_

A melodramatic sigh issued from the god that only Dean could hear, but secretly Mithra was pleased and didn’t hesitate to let Dean feel his affection.  _M will do._ The white soul shimmered in satisfaction, basking in the warmth of approval from the golden grace.   _With practice, Dean, you can hold one conversation out there and one in here with me or with Matt or even both of us.  And you can do it without looking constipated._

       “Can you get him?” Foggy asked, lowering the fireplace poker even as Brett and Sam shouted protests.

       “Where ever they're holding him, the place is warded.  I could find him if he’d talk to me, but he’s currently giving us the silent treatment because someone convinced him that his feelings for Dean weren’t real.”

       “They’re not,” Sam sputtered.  “You…”

       “I didn’t create the bond.  I just installed the phone lines.”

       “So how do we get Matt back?”  Foggy was single-minded.

       “And how did you get inside Dean?  We still have that shit-stew downstairs.”  The detective’s eyes were serious.

       Dean’s eyebrows lifted as he grinned.  He slowly raised a hand and snapped his fingers.  “Shit stew gone.  And the bar is fumigated.”  He was met with three expressions of doubt.  “Tough audience.”  He snapped again and Sam found himself holding a stuffed dog instead of a gun.  Foggy’s poker became a black licorice whip.  Mahoney yelped and dropped the large lavender colored dildo that had replaced his weapon.  Dean’s laughter inside their shared headspace made Mithra’s grace buzz with joy.

       “That doesn’t answer the question,” Sam snarled, throwing the stuffed puppy across the room.  “How did you get inside Dean if he didn’t drink the potion?”

       “The potion is just an elaborate means of securing consent.  A person who drinks the _hom_ has agreed to let me inside.  Dean was willing to let me in, I was willing to share my power with him.  No potion needed.”  The individual statements were true even if the impression they left wasn’t.  Even with consent, if Mithra entered a human who wasn’t the vessel of an archangel and who hadn’t consumed the sacred drink, the human would likely die or, best case scenario, go stark raving and permanently mad.  Mithra wasn’t ready to tell Dean he was special either, because that would mean explaining why, telling Dean about the Apocalypse and the role he was expected to play.

        _Wait?  I did what?_   Dean protested.  Instantly Dean had in his mind the memory of the first gentle taste of Mithra’s grace and the intensely erotic exchange that followed.

        _Sour goat’s milk versus a soul deep orgasm.  Which would you have preferred, princess?_ Feeling the arousal pouring off the human soul, Mithra used their bond to add to that feeling.  _You’re welcome._ Dean used the bond to whack the smug bastard.  Pride, happiness, and promises of a deliciously sore ass returned to the hunter.

       “Get out of my brother,” Sam demanded.

       “You knew what would happen if Dean drank the _hom_ , and you were willing to let him be the one.  So let us finish the job.  We’re the only way to defeat the daeva.  I don’t see the God Squad offering to help with that problem, and believe me, they know.  They just don’t give a damn.”

       “No.  There has to be another way.” 

       M cast a glance heavenward, recalling Michael’s frequent feelings of frustration with his younger siblings.  “Dean and I together are also the best way you have to find Matt and bring him home.”

        _Can I?_ Dean asked, making M aware of his intent.

_I thought you’d never ask._

The shift was subtle, but the three men were watching Dean so closely they could tell something had happened.  _“_ Sammy, shut your pie-hole.  We got people to save.”

       “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

       Dean and M shared a sigh, though one was fond and the other exasperated, at Sam’s stubbornness.  “You gotta trust me.  This was my choice.  Respect that.”  Sam frowned, and Dean gave a grin that made his eyes flash dangerously…for a little brother.  “Hell, even if M couldn’t battle the daeva, god sex is just plain awesome.  All the pleasures of the real thing and no nasty clean up.  Speaking of clean up, can I borrow some underwear, bitch?  Matt’s ruined all of mine, and, I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem right to go fight your demon skank fuck-buddy without that extra layer of protection.”  Because nothing made Sam squirm like Dean talking about sex…Ah, there was the bitch face.  Mission accomplished.

       “That’s Dean,” Sam admitted.  No monster could ever quite capture his brother’s endearing yet annoying knack for being charmingly uncouth.

       "Can we send him back,” Brett grumbled.

       “Aw, what’s the matter, Erkel?  Jealous?”

       The cop grinned back.  “I ain’t the jealous type.  Matt on the other hand…  They’re gonna hear you squeal in Brooklyn when he gets hold of your ass.”

       Dean waggled his eyebrows.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  Sam fled the room.  “Hey, Sammy, wait!  I was serious about theEEE…aw fuck.” 

        _Underwear problem solved, princess._

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, my wonderful readers. Your clicks and kudos and comments keep me smiling. Hopefully my writer's block has become less of a concrete brick and more of a Lego, but I finally got Matt's head back on straight:) See if you can answer the trivia question at the end of the chapter!

Chapter 23

 

_Back in Blue Earth…Matt’s reaction to the celestial orgasm…_

           

       Crouching on his bruised knees on the worn linoleum flooring of Father Jim Murphy’s kitchen, Matt kicked himself for failing to remember the fable of the blind men and the elephant...or was it the one about how to eat an elephant…?  Anyway, he was definitely choking on it now.

       Matt had deliberately ignored Mithra’s mark and the links it created, confident in his ability to keep the connections sealed.  Even after Samandriel described the web of golden strands of grace that tied him to Dean and Mithra, he hadn’t gone searching through his subconscious looking for them himself, after all, Castiel had said the connection would wither if he chose to ignore it long enough.  _It was fragile._  

       And when he thought he felt a faint thrumming of desire that brought to mind a ticklish hunter, he prided himself on his ability to resist the urge to touch the Zoroastrian sigil carved into his flesh.  _It was weak._

       When the vibrations became stronger, he turned towards the kitchen counter to discreetly palm his growing erection, blaming his condition on the increased chafing from his lack of underwear.  A sheen of sweat collected on his upper lip and he shifted uncomfortably.  _It wasn’t real._  

       He was unable to participate in the others’ speculation on the demon’s purpose in New York City haunted as he was by vivid technicolor daydreams of Dean’s naked body bathed in sunlight, writhing in a nest of white.  He clung to the vision as he gently slipped his fingers under his glasses to prod at his eyelids, massaging the sightless eyes underneath with rare regret.  He dismissed as mere fantasy the sound of Dean’s panting and whines.  _He **really** needed to get laid._

       When Mithra blew open his side of the bond with the intensity of his victory cry as spirit and soul merged with flesh, Matt was knocked to the floor.  The first blow was quickly followed by a second as Dean’s moment of divine rapture battered down the shield Matt had erected to seal their connection.  Matt found himself squashed beneath the elephant in the room, groaning, unable to stand from the dizzying rush, as he shared in the sounds and tastes and touches between his bondmates’ in the afterglow of their union.  He couldn’t help but push out a curious tendril of his own through the connection, wanting proof that Dean was whole and safe.  After a moment the darkness behind his eyes turned gray.  Matt jerked his head back as the gray became an unimaginable light, but then…then he could see as if he were there, as if his eyes were healed.  There was **_his_** Dean, his claim still on the hunter’s neck, the bronze image of the horned god crusted with their blood and resting on its leather string in the hollow of Dean’s throat, green eyes heavy-lidded, pelvis still rocking lazily like a carnival ride slowly coasting to a stop, and there were the dainty freckles he’d only imagined, and the scars he’d touched the night before, and those plump dusky lips that tempted even angels to lust.  After twenty years of darkness populated only by fiery ghosts made of heat, there was Dean.  God, he was glorious!  Tears flowed from Matt’s broken eyes and he felt a tug on his soul, a plea, an invitation, his name chanted like a mantra from those perfect lips.  _It was a miracle._

       With a yell of his own he renewed the seal and shut them out, shut out the sounds, and the invitation, and the light and the smells, and…  And the darkness returned to swallow the vision of Dean.  But this time Matt knew the seal wouldn’t last.  He didn’t want it to.  _Mine._  

       Samandriel picked the gifted one up from the floor where he had collapsed with a shout that sounded like pain.  The angel’s eagerness to help resulted in Matt being tossed about like he weighed no more than cotton candy.  When the world finally stopped moving he found himself back in a chair at Pastor Jim’s ancient formica-topped table.  The priest came to kneel beside him as he removed Matt’s glasses, one hand cupping the side of Matt’s unshaven face, and the other grasping his wrist to feel his racing pulse.  “Matt?  Son, can you hear me?  Can you tell me what happened?”

       “Dean…”

       “Is he hurt?”  There was urgency and true concern in the tightening of the older man’s dry hands, but there was also a weariness in his voice that spoke of how hard it was to care so much for the young man damned by heaven’s blessing. 

       Matt tried to process what he had felt, all of it, not just the grand finale.  There had been confusion, fear, pain, panic and…pleasure?  Most definitely there had been gut-wrenching, mind-blowing, earth-shaking pleasure.  And it wasn’t just Dean, Matt had received the message in stereo; both sides of the connection blown wide open from the jubilant force and Mithra’s roar of triumph as he fucked his claim into Dean.  And how the hell was _that_ even possible?  Of course, Matt knew he had no right to be bitter.  He was the one who had walked away.  Not Dean.  He knew Dean would go through with the plan without him, drinking the gag-inducing concoction Sam and Foggy had prepared and offering himself up to be used by Mithra.  He just hadn’t expected…THAT. 

       Hadn’t expected a ritual involving a fertility god and an aphrodisiac to involve sex.  (Rrriiiiiiiight…) 

       Reluctantly, Matt acknowledged to himself that wasn’t true, he just expected that he would be the only one benefitting from the arrangement, not some intangible divinity of celestial mumbo-jumbo (or whatever Castiel had called it).  But whatever had happened between Mithra and Dean was more than sex.  Mithra’s shout wasn’t just pleasure, it was victory.  He had won a battle, and Dean wasn’t the enemy.  He was the prize.  “Mithra’s taken Dean,” he announced in a dazed voice.

       “Taken?”  Father Murphy dropped his hand from Matt’s tear-streaked face.  “I don’t understand.  Taken him where?” 

       “Taken.  Fucked.  Ravished.  Possessed.” Matt snapped.  “How is that even possible?  Dean didn’t drink the potion.”

       “Possessed?”  Samandriel turned wide frightened eyes to his captain.  “Michael…?”

       But Castiel’s sword was already in his hand, held in a white-knuckled grip.  His eyes glowed a halogen blue as he unleashed a screech that shattered the glass in the small rectory.  The superhero tucked himself over the priest protectively.  Matt felt the hair on his head stand on end as electricity crackled around them and the smell of ozone and scorched sugar made him choke and his eyes water.  There was the snap of feathers and the coarse-voiced honey angel was gone.  Matt pressed his hands to his aching ears, but the sound of Dean’s rapture still echoed in his head even louder than Castiel’s battle cry.

       The priest stood and staggered back, bracing himself with the counter behind him, a calloused palm rubbing hard across his face, but fear had made him numb.  “Dean…  Is he…  Can we get him back?”  The Winchesters’ surrogate father watched with growing tension as the blood drained from the ruddy face of the teenaged vessel until the only color on the angel’s face came from red pinpricks of acne.

       “I don’t know.  His body, maybe.”  Alfie stammered.  “But his mind…?  Possession can…  Well, it can be…”  Wide eyes reflecting every worry and fear back to him a thousand times over drilled painfully into Pastor Jim.  “You’ve seen what can happen.”  Yes, Jim Murphy had seen.  He’d seen bodies crumple lifelessly to the ground after the demon inside had been exorcized.  He’d heard the screams of those driven mad by possession, or solemnly presided over the funerals of those who couldn’t forget and had escaped the guilt and memories with knives, drugs or guns they’d wielded against themselves.  He’d seen angel vessels spontaneously combust.  He’d recently visited the vessel of Raphael.  He hadn’t met the archangel, only the empty vessel, but he’d arranged to have the drooling and unresponsive young African American man, who had once been a brilliant med student, moved to a church run nursing home in Blue Earth.

       Matt couldn’t read minds, but he could read people, and he knew from Father Murphy’s skyrocketing heart rate that the man was on the verge of a panic-induced breakdown.  “What can happen?” Matt demanded in the raspy undertones of his alter ego, danger leaching off of him.  No one responded, but the tension in the air spiked even higher as the angel and the priest remembered his presence.  That was answer enough.

       “Dean is Michael’s Sword.  He’s The Righteous Man.  Michael will save him from this.”  By the sound of it, it wasn’t a question, but an edict from the man who’d devoted two decades of his life to preserving the archangel’s vessel, knowing what would happen to the boy he loved like a son when the time came for the prophecy to be fulfilled.  Father Murphy had never met Michael.  The general of heaven’s army had never taken a personal interest in Dean.  Years and years of prayers to him and pleas to his underlings had gone unanswered while the priest did the best he could for the boy whom life and heaven had treated so unfairly.

       “Michael can’t claim The Righteous Man if another being already occupies the vessel,” the younger angel explained to the humans.

       “Is there an exorcism?”

       The angel’s response was delayed.  It was the first time in over twenty years that heaven’s soldiers seemed uncertain.  Not meeting the priest’s eyes this time, Samandriel gave a jerky wobble of his head in the negative.  “No exorcism.  Technically, the host can withdraw consent, but…”

       “But…?”                                    

       Matt raised his head to track the exchange, a sick feeling knotting his intestines.  “Define ‘technically’?” he added, still infusing the words with the threat of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

       The angel glanced between Matt Murdock and Jim Murphy.  “Even when the host consents to possession…it’s _possession_.  The stronger being exerts control not just over the body, but…” he left the sentence unfinished, a guilty expression putting unnatural wrinkles on the young face.  The angel turned his eyes to the glass covered floor in shame.

       “Over the mind,” Matt finished.

       Samandriel nodded.

       “Consent doesn’t get withdrawn very often then, does it?” The lawyer’s cadence was conversational, but the air felt several degrees cooler as the cross-examination proceeded.

       “No.”

       “I thought the potion was supposed to protect Dean?  I thought Mithra couldn’t stay inside Dean for more than a few hours.”

       “Dean is Michael’s true vessel.  Mithra shares Michael’s grace.  If Dean can’t cast him out, he has no reason to ever leave.” 

       “So we have to kill Mithra to get him out of Dean?”  Father Murphy’s anger radiated through the air until Matt could feel the heat in his own skin.  “Then you can heal Dean.  You can help him, right?”

       “I can’t…  The vessel…it’s no longer…pure.”

       “What does that mean?”  Father Jim snapped.  “You’ve healed him and cleansed him of illness more times than I can count.”

       “He has a name,” Matt snarled.  “I don’t give a damn if he’s pure.  Can you save Dean?”

       “It’s not sickness,” Alfie stammered.  “Michael’s vessel can’t be cured of another angel’s claim.  The vessel has to be… unused.  Even if Mithra were to be cast out, Dean is ruined.  Michael is the Ruler of Heaven now.  With Our Father missing, there is no being higher than him.  He…  He won’t accept Mithra’s…leavings.”

       Stunned silence rang through the room.  Matt could hear the distant rush of early morning traffic miles away, snippets of bird song in the fragrant pines outside, the rhythmic chirps and rippling croaks of frogs around a lake not more than the distance of a city block to the north, and the rustle of thin curtains in the cool breeze that stole through the broken windows.  “So…they did it?”  Matt breathed, uncertain about his feelings, but…hopeful?  Relieved?  Proud?  “Mithra and Dean stopped the Apocalypse?”

       “Or did they just give Lucifer the victory?”  Father Murphy pushed himself away from the kitchen counter in agitation before he began breaking things.  The coffee mugs hanging on their little wooden stand were a tempting target.  “Because Michael fancies himself too good for…for…”

       “Sloppy seconds?” Samandriel offered a colloquialism from his vessel’s memory.

       A sound like a wounded animal escaped the priest as Matt gave a startled hybrid sound that might have been a sob mated with a snort of uncomfortable laughter at the unexpected vocabulary of an Angel of the Lord.  He asked what he thought was an obvious question with an easy answer.  “I can’t imagine that Sam, even a Sam drinking demon’s blood, wants to be the cause of the Apocalypse.  If Dean’s found a way to stop Michael, why can’t we just tell Sam the truth?  Doesn’t he deserve to know?  To prepare himself to fight back?  Can’t you help him do that?”

       “I never wanted the boys to bear that burden,” the priest sank into the chair beside Matt, one large hand gripping and clutching at the other in his distress.  He didn’t sound like the same man Matt had met when he arrived in the basement.  The night had aged him and robbed him of his faith in the angels he had served for so many years.  He shared Samandriel’s despair:  Where was God?  “I never wanted Sam to know he’s destined for corruption, or Dean to know he was born to be sacrificed and given to Michael to save the world.  When is there ever a good time to drop that bombshell on two kids already dealing with so much shit?  I asked Anna for the geas.  I’d never forgive myself if John Winchester ever learned about all this from me,” he shuddered.  “Most hunters would have killed the boys outright.  Hell, most so-called Christians would too if they knew Sam was Lucifer’s vessel.  There are covens who would hold both boys for power, hoping for favors from demons or using their blood and bodies to supercharge dark magic.”  He fixed Matt with a glare that the blind man could feel without any of his enhanced senses.  “You said so yourself, who wouldn’t want to kill them or use them as leverage over all the powers of heaven and hell?”

       When Castiel reappeared in the room, Matt leaped up so fast the table flipped.  Alfie caught it easily and set it to rights as Matt caught his breath and Father Murphy strode over to the angel who still smelled like burning sweets, his feet crunching on the broken glass as he closed the distance.  “So?” he demanded, clutching a fistful of the angel’s trench coat in an intimidating, but ultimately useless gesture.  “Dean?  Is he…?”

       The angel gave off no emotion that Matt could read with his senses.  “Mithra’s wards are strong.  They draw power from ley lines deep under the city.  Earth magic.  Uriel, Inias and Hannah are trying to break through, but no one, not even humans now, can get in or out of the Josie’s Bar without Mithra’s consent.  We can’t see.  We can’t hear.”  He shook his head.  “We don’t know what’s going on inside.”  Castiel moved towards Matt, firmly moving Father Murphy out of his way.  “What did you feel through the bond?”

       Matt’s mouth went dry.  “I…um…I don’t know how, but it was…they were…”  His shoulders slumped.  “Sex.  They were having sex.  Mithra even let me see Dean, like I was there.  Real sight, not...this,” he gestured vaguely to his own eyes.  “Then…when they…or-uh…climaxed...it…”

       “Knocked you off your feet?”  The priest wasn’t making a joke.

       Matt nodded, reaching up to massage his throat and feeling a shiver of excitement race down his spine into his groin as his fingers brushed over the sigil Mithra had carved.  “They both hit me with it.  I thought I had the connection between us sealed, but…it was like a bomb went off in my soul.  Neither one was especially coherent, but, as much as I want to hate Mithra, it wasn’t rape.  Beyond pleasure, Dean felt safe.  He felt wanted.  And Mithra felt…everything:  anger, pleasure, l-love…”  Matt stuttered to a halt as he realized it was true.  “Mithra won’t hurt Dean.  I know what you said about possession, but Dean was still Dean.”  Matt tasted the words in his mouth like fresh water and knew they were true.  A tickle in the back of his brain he’d been trying to ignore began to take a shape.

       Castiel’s scowl made a deep comma at the inner edge of each eyebrow and at the corners of his mouth as he tried to make sense of what Matt Murdock was describing.  “Mithra in his true form could not fornicate with a human, not even with The Righteous Man, and the claiming of a vessel is not a sexual experience.”  Castiel hadn’t felt pleasure when he took over his vessel.  He thought back twenty-four hours.  James Novak did not make his body react the way it did when he watched Dean Winchester.  And claiming his vessel, while he was relieved to say that he hadn’t damaged the human, it hadn’t made his grace spark uncontrollably, much less flare out into the supernova that Matt experienced even secondhand.  He turned his head to catch Samandriel’s eye and saw the same confusion.

       “I know what I felt,” Matt insisted with a slight shake of his head, like there was an annoying gnat humming in his ear.                                 

       The room was silent for minutes, the sounds of daily life in the small town and nearby farms and pastures growing in volume as the sun grew brighter.  Matt had never experienced a tapestry of sound that wasn’t threaded with screams and sirens.  His ears rang, unaccustomed to the stillness.  The lack of familiar noise was an itch under his skin, irritating and agitating.  Father Murphy reached out and stilled his bouncing knee.  “Dean does the same thing when the quiet makes him antsy,” he commented with a weak facsimile of a smile.  “Took nearly a year after his mother died before anyone other than his baby brother could coax more than a word or two out of him.  You could hide around a corner and hear him whispering to Sammy or humming the tune to _Hey, Jude_.  It was maybe another year after that before he spoke like any other kid his age.  After that, if it wasn’t the sound of his own voice chattering non-stop from sun-up to sun-down, he was playing his music to fill in the blanks.  I guess once he broke out of that dark and quiet prison in his head he lived in fear of going back.  John tried to shut him up with just as much success as he’d had trying to get him to start talking to begin with.  How the boy became the best damn hunter I know is a miracle.” 

       Dean.  Matt sighed and let the lingering scent of blackberries draw him in as he let thoughts of Dean lead him deeper into his own mind until he found the link they shared.  The flutter of sinfully long eyelashes more heavenly than the flap of angel wings.  The intelligence he hid like it was something shameful.  The warmth of his skin, especially the heat that radiated from his ass after he’d been spanked to salty-sweet tears.  The fight and ferocity that would tremble just beneath the skin until the right combination of words and touch brought him to peaceful submission.  The different sounds of Dean’s laughter that Matt had catalogued thus far:  low and wicked, sliding over Matt’s cock like a rough hand; breathy, soft and uncertain; harsh with a bark of insincere humor and self-deprecation; adolescent and innocent as he giggled at his own lewd joke; ab-crunching, rib-cracking and uncontrollable; rolling and real, leaving Matt helpless to do anything but respond in kind...  The thought caught Matt up short at the edge of a precipice, but instead of turning away he stepped to the edge where hopes and questions and wandering feelings buffeted his face like a strong wind threatening to pull him off the edge and into the unknown.  Below and around and everywhere in between was Dean.

       …and the annoying buzz that became a wisp of a song that hooked the corners of Matt Murdock’s mouth upwards into a rare grin as he made his choice and leapt, breaking the seal he’d placed on his mind and traveling over the golden threads of connection until he reached his goal.

       Father Murphy saw the grimace on the young man’s face, give way to something radiant.  Matt reached out to grasp and squeeze the older man’s shoulder.  “He’s okay.”  The song was too loud now for Matt to ignore, and everyone looked at him like he was on the verge of a breakdown as he began to laugh.  “He’s okay!”  Matt opened the bond to the sweetest tune he’d ever heard.  _I’m here, Dean.  Come get me, baby.  Let’s go home._

*****  

        _Underwear problem solved, princess._

       For a fleeting moment, Dean was distracted by the rapid redirection of blood flow following the cool embrace of the satin panties around Little Dean and all his other tender bits, but then the moment passed and he went to follow Sam and the others back down to the bar (subconsciously swinging his hips a little more than usual because the slippery caress of the lingerie against his skin was fucking addictive).  The hunter’s face was as red as the cherry on an ice cream sundae, even though there was no one to observe his awkward sashay…except the invisible deity in his head… “Fuck my life,” The Righteous Man muttered softly, rubbing at his eyes with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand.  He made an adorable picture (one that he was thankful he couldn’t see) as he went cross-eyed attempting to stare-down the new roommate in his head.  _Just so we’re clear.  Matt’s the priority.  We find Matt, bring him home safe, and then we deal with the demons._

        _As you wish._

_Dude, did you just_ Princess Bride _me?_

_If the shoe fits, Buttercup._

Green eyes made a dramatic circle in their sockets.  _How do you even know that shit anyway?_

_I like humans and your wonderful imaginations.  And, truthfully, I didn’t have much else to do before you, princess._

Any response Dean would have made to the innuendo was painfully caught in his throat like a fishbone.  He stopped short in the same small smelly back hallway where he had last held Matt, where Mithra had made his mark and used his talisman and blood-magic to tie the three of them together…where he and Matt had collapsed and passed out in agony.

       Dean’s sudden hostility made the bond between them icy.

        _I never meant to hurt you.  Either of you.  Matt’s Mutant X gene has given him incredible control over outside influence.  Breaking down his wall to plant the bond caused you both incredible pain.  I felt it too._

        _Yeah?  Well fuck you!  That was your fault._   _Remind me why I trust you?_

In fact, M had been expecting this argument sooner.  _I could ask you the same question.  Your soul chose me, Dean.  Your soul touched my true form and left something of itself behind.  You don’t understand, but that should never have been possible.  Even human soulmates are rare, but you have two:  your brother and Matt.  That’s not an accident, little one.  Soulmates need each other._

_And I need three?  Am I that fucking weak?_ He knew he was.

His human was a fool.  _Dean…_

_I don’t need you to blow sunshine up my ass!  You don’t know me!_

His human was also a brat. _I know everything about you!  I know you better than you know yourself!_   With each exclamation, the god tightened his grip on the mortal soul, shaking it in his frustration. _I’m a god of judgment, Dean!  I can’t see the future, but, if I search, I can see every moment of your past.  I can tell you why you’ve made every decision of your life, but I can’t tell what you’ll do next…and that terrifies me in a way I’ve never been frightened before!  So much depends on your decisions._ He lowered his voice and the punishing grip turned into a caress.  _You have three soulmates because you have a great destiny, Dean Winchester, and because there is something you can give each of us that no one else ever could._

_Bullshit._

_Truth!  Because of you, I can touch the world once more.  Because of you, Dean, I’m no longer alone, and I’ve been alone so long.  You can feel through our bond how precious you are to me.  You can trust me because we were made for each other.  I am yours, little one.  Completely._ Checking the bond, M could feel Dean’s doubt and refusal to accept his declaration.

        _I don’t deserve it. If you can see my past, then you know I don’t.  Matt’s smart, he’s a lawyer with fucking superpowers.  I know why you want him, but I’m nothing.  I’m…_

_We’re going to discuss this when Matt comes home.  I don’t think he likes it when you talk about yourself that way._ The burst of conflicting emotions through Dean’s side of the bond made the god flinch like nails were scratching down a blackboard.  There was the expected blast of dread with an undertone of arousal; but there was also hot anger and the desire to argue and lash out at both his mates; shame over his past and over his submission and his kinks; surprisingly, there was a bit of cool steel; and, finally, a glimmer of hope.

       The unyielding steel won out.  _Whatever._    

Many discussions would be required, and, more than likely, those discussions would be had with an indignant Dean ass-end up and bare, but first they had to find Matt.  The warm buzz of M’s grace relaxed the tense set of Dean’s shoulders, but, being Dean, it was difficult for him to enjoy the good feeling without guilt.  He stiffened again. 

M let his grace gently embrace his human soulmate.  _You and Matt are very much alike, baby.  You both sacrifice yourselves, and ignore your wants and your needs.  You’re both heroes:  the one who protects the weak and the one who punishes the evil.  My sigil is more than a tie, it’s a gift.  I can’t wait to show you.  And you should know that Matt’s soul accepted you instantly.  His soul wanted yours.  And he accepted my mark freely or it never would have been made.  He wanted us both in spite of the pain.  But he does have free will.  He can choose.  And right now he’s choosing to be an angst-ridden drama queen and giving us the silent treatment.  I thought you were supposed to be the immature one._

Dean didn’t laugh.  _You’re sure he’ll come back?_

Dean felt the warmth of M inside him, a gentle comfort like a stomach full of pancakes and syrup on a winter morning.  The god silently praised his charge while he made promises he hoped would come true.  _The more we use the bond, the more chance there is of Matt responding.  Think of the three of us floating on a lake.  You and I are having fun.  Matt’s the idiot prom queen laying out on a raft and trying not to get her hair wet.  The more you and I splash in the water, the more Matt will get wet and the more likely he is to react, even if it’s just to shout at us.  He felt our union.  That wasn’t just a splash, it was an explosion.  I feel his fear and his worry for you, but it’s not intentional.  He still isn’t using the bond himself._

_Can he hear me if I talk to him?_

_His walls are up, Dean, and they’re strong.  You’ll have to be persuasive._

_That’s not how I work, M._   With a wicked grin, Dean began to hum.

It only took a moment for M to recognize the song.  _Really?  This is how you woo our mate back?_

        _Shut up.  It worked for Swayze._ Counting on Matt’s sensitivity, Dean continued to sing in an intentionally off-key rendition of the song that rattled across the bond like tin cans in a hurricane.  He was confident he would break down Matt’s defenses in less than an hour.

       It took five minutes and 33 seconds.

        _Wuss_ , Dean crowed without malice.  He felt a delicious shudder go through him as Matt touched their bond.  Matt thought of the Righteous Man wiggling his perfect little bubble butt in a victory dance and he couldn’t help his smile.  Maybe he really would be able to see it soon.

_I’m here, Dean.  Come get me, baby.  Let’s go home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia Question: What song was Dean singing?
> 
> Extra Credit (and love from me): I would love to title the Chapters to this story. You don't know how many times I had to reread chapter after chapter trying to find some tidbit so I didn't make too many continuity mistakes. I've come up with a title for Chapter One (Josie Ain't No Pussycat), but if any of y'all have suggestions for any other Chapter I would LOVE to hear them and hopefully put them to good use!
> 
> Finally, I love to hear from you and welcome all your comments and questions and criticisms and ideas. Let me have them, please! please! please!
> 
> Thanks for your love, support and patience!


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

_We’re coming._ The god and the Righteous Man spoke as one, the sound creating ripples of power and perfection like a temple bell.  Mithra leapt into the ether, stretching his wings as Dean screeched in terror only to have the sound yanked out by the roots and cut short a half second later as he felt his feet touch ground, real ground.  He let his eyes dart about in a quick inspection of his surroundings, Mithra allowing Dean the control to adjust to the new experience.

        _What was that?_

        _Flight._

_I don’t fly.  If I was meant to fly, God would have given…  Me…  Wings…_ Mithra allowed Dean to feel the weight of his six wings and let the feathers brush lightly against his soul.  _Oh._   The faint gasp was weighted with wonder and pleasure.

        _What’s mine is yours._

        _No way, Dude.  You keep your bird parts to yourself and I’ll keep my Baby._ Dean’s indignance couldn’t disguise his half-hard state of arousal, but M chose to let it go.  Though he was keeping a tally of the number of times the hunter continued to call him _Dude_.  Feeling the moment had passed, Dean again turned his eyes to the breaking day around him.  He was standing on a sloping hillside in the morning mist the purple field flowers of early spring his best clue that he was somewhere in the Midwest.  The pinkening of the sky before him a signal that he was facing east.  He had to pause to appreciate the beauty of the sunrise.  He’d seen many, most often through the bug-spattered windshield of the Impala, his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, his eyes burning from driving through hours and hours of caffeine-fueled darkness, biting the inside of his lip bloody in order to stay awake just one mile more, then another, and another…  Still, the sunrise always lifted his spirits, at least for the handful of minutes it took before the pinks and golds turned to blue. 

       He turned around to spot an awkward silhouette maybe a hundred yards away, a cluster of trees, the one in the center rising so much taller than its peers the inky shapes against the brightening sky resembled a classic single finger salute.  A church steeple rose nearby.  Dean snickered.  Pastor Jim had been less than thrilled when Dean pointed out the symbolism.  So of course he had done it regularly.  Even included the trees in every drawing of the church he’d ever made growing up, and, in spite of the punishments he’d received – extra chores and Bible translations - he knew the priest had a desk drawer full of Dean’s artwork.  He’d even chosen to use one of Dean’s sketches for the parish Christmas card more than one year.  He knew this place.  _Why’d you bring me here?  I thought we were going to get Matt?_

        _We are.  Matt’s there._   Dean felt his gaze directed to the white clapboard rectory next to the church.

        _Dude.  M.  That’s not possible.  That’s Pastor Jim’s house._   Memories made of words and color filled the bond between them as Dean conveyed who and what Pastor Jim was to him.  Mithra only briefly wondered at how adept Dean had become with the bond, and how quickly.  The Righteous Man was truly born to consort with angels.  Mithra promised himself he would explore that thought later, but at that moment, Matt was so close and Dean was growing more and more anxious for the priest as well, the man who always seemed to be there to pick him up when he fell.

        _Reach out to Matt.  Ask him._

To say Dean didn’t like what Matt revealed, would be like saying the howl he unleashed that cut the dawn like a machete, flushing grouse into the sky and setting dogs to baying across the countryside was just a whimper.  M shared Dean’s outrage, pulling his weapon from the same secret place that hid his wings.

       “Ahhh…”  Dean didn’t bother keeping his awe silent as he stared at the weapon in his right hand.  His fingers curled around a thick bronze staff laced with etchings of gold.  Slightly longer than his arm, the staff was topped by the horned head of a bull, with emeralds for eyes and Mithra’s fiery halo etched with more gold on its broad forehead.  From the weight of the weapon in his hand, Dean knew the head of the bull was solid and heavy, but with the extra strength he now possessed he could easily hold it aloft.  The horns curved upwards from the forehead of the beast and were dangerously sharp.  The weapon was warm in his palm.  As he maneuvered his wrist he was surprised to see the seemingly solid weapon transform into a short sword with a deadly point for thrusting, and a double cutting edge.

        _The mace and the gladius.  I was a god to both the Persians and the Romans_ , Mithra explained.  _My weapon evolved._

_I’d rather it evolve into a gun or a machete._

        _Relax,_ Mithra gave a gentle warning.  Just as Dean had used the bond and the flow of memory to educate M about Pastor Jim, so the tables were now turned, and Mithra provided his mate with a lightning quick tutorial on how to wield and use both weapons in battle.  With his own outrage and M’s strength and skill running through his body, Dean was ready to rescue his superhero.

*****

       He’d have felt like a hero from an old western movie if it weren’t for the ache of betrayal that made him too numb to feel much of anything.  He didn’t even protest the quick flight to the edge of the rectory lawn where he stood, celestial weapon in hand, and bellowed his challenge towards the house, voice booming unnaturally loud.  “Give me back my boyfriend, and nobody has to get hurt.”

       Matt hated angelic travel.  But, for some ungodly reason, Castiel had felt the need to transport him the ten steps out the door and into the yard instead of allowing him to make the journey on his own two talented and steady feet.  Though the beef stew should have been digested by now, enough stomach acid remained to have Matt’s throat burning.  Samandriel appeared beside them, and Pastor Jim followed moments later via the normal human method.  By the smell of smoke and steel and the clatter made as he prepped it to fire, Matt knew the priest held a shotgun.  The angels’ weapons smelled like lightning and gave off an energy signature Matt could feel and see.  Even the smallest angel had located a replacement for the sword he had dropped at Josie’s. 

       As Matt righted himself, he turned his head towards Dean, the scent of blackberries making his mouth water for the taste of the man.  His breath caught in his throat.  Dean shone brighter than the angels beside him.  He radiated heat and power.  Fury poured through the bond nearly as fierce as the earlier pleasure.  Matt could detect the weapon in his hand as well, an extension of that power.  The lack of a weapon had never bothered Daredevil, but knowing that two and quite likely three of the beings in this five person showdown, were impervious to his fists, made him feel helpless in a way he hadn’t since he’d begun his training with Stick all those years ago.   

       “Hey, city boy, had enough of the clean air and healthy living?”  Dean smirked and both Matt and Pastor Jim felt the chill in his voice and the priest could see it in his eyes.  This was Dean Winchester the hunter, the scourge of monsters, scarier than the things that go bump in the night.  He was in his element in a fight and under pressure.  It was the quiet that gave him time to reflect, doubt and listen to the hateful voices in his head.  He’d figured that out after that first painful year when Sammy had left for Stanford and his Dad had left him behind.  Dean needed to be needed, needed to be busy, and, when that failed, he needed to find the next hunt, next fuck, next dollar.

       “You here to offer me a ride?” Matt shot back, his glasses wiggling slightly as he bounced his eyebrows.  He was conscious of Castiel’s grip on his arm and he already knew that he couldn’t break that hold himself.

       “I can do that.  Though I was hopin’ you’d take that stick shift and drive me into the mattress, Babe,” Dean leered, eyes sparkling at his own lousy metaphor.  M groaned internally for Matt and Dean both to hear.  Matt grinned.  Alfie giggled.  Castiel cocked his head in confusion.

       Pastor Jim heard his boy even though the angels had said it wasn’t possible.  “Dean?”

       “Jim.”  Dean didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t think he could keep up the jokes and keep up his guard if he saw what was there.  He wasn’t ready to look at the man who had raised him, trying to fill the gaps of John Winchester’s shitty parenting.  “Want to tell me how you fit into all this?”

       “You’re okay?”  The priest wasn’t ignoring Dean’s question so much as he was too amazed and relieved and incredulous at what he was seeing to have even registered Dean’s words.  “You’re still you?  I didn’t think…  How?  How is that possible?”

       Dean did finally look at his old friend, concerned about the old man’s health as he babbled nonsense.  “What did they do to you?  Did they hurt you?”  He nearly dropped the weapon in his hand and ran to the older man, but M exerted the control to hold him in place.

        _Steady.  Don’t cross the warding._   He let Dean see the glow of the enochian sigils and spell work set into the ground like the iron Dean knew was buried around the property. _Let Matt come to us._

_Why?_

_We cross the wards and every angel in the garrison will be here in the flap of a wing._

_Why haven’t they raised the alarm?_ It was a good question and Mithra let Dean feel his praise through their connection.

        _Most likely waiting for someone to tell them what to do.  Angels follow orders.  We’re not following their playbook, princess._

       Their internal conversation happened faster than words could be spoken.  Matt could sense it as a buzz, an undercurrent, below the intentional, almost subconscious.  With a start Matt realized Dean probably wasn’t entirely human anymore.  Of course, considering the stories he’d heard from Pastor Jim and the angels, it was likely he never was.  Not that Matt was one to throw stones.  There was a reason he’d never had himself tested for the mutant gene:  the prejudice, the fear, and isolation even greater than what he experienced now.  Even his best friend had nearly deserted him when he learned the truth, but not Dean.  Matt was willing to give him the same acceptance.  That was his choice.  His free will.

        _About time you got there_ , Mithra chided the prodigal.

       “Jim?” Dean repeated in the false gravel and grit tone he used to make himself seem tougher and older than he was.  “Why are the angels who kidnapped my boyfriend hiding out at your house?”

“Boyfriend?”Matt couldn’t help but ask the question.

       “Shut up,” Dean snapped back.  “You aren’t the only one who get to be possessive.”

       “Dean, where’s Mithra?”  The priest still avoided Dean’s question.  This time it was deliberate.

       Sharp green eyes focused on the man in black, knowing, accusing, hurt.  “He’s here.  That a problem?”

       “Dean, don’t trust him.  He’s dangerous.”

       “So am I,” the hunter replied bluntly.

       “He’s using you, son.”

       “There’s a lot of that going around, Father.”  A sad little smile graced Dean’s face, the first crack in the mask he’d created.  “Never thought we’d be on opposite sides, sir.”

       “Dean, we don’t have to be, son.  You’re a good boy.  I know you’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”

       “Like what?”

       “Put down your weapon and reject Mithra for starters, Dean.”

       “Why?  Did you forget there’s a killer demon slaughtering innocent people in New York?”

       “The angels can take care of that, Dean.”

       “But they haven’t.  They let people die.”  Saving people.  That was Dean’s life, his purpose, the one thing he could do to make up for his mistakes, the one thing that made him worthy of another day of existence.  And the very man who taught him that, was now telling him it didn’t matter.  Those people didn’t matter.  He didn’t matter.

       “There’s things you don’t know about.  Bigger things.  Bigger than one demon.”

       “Like the Apocalypse?”  The sadness was gone, replaced by something fiery that made the green eyes glow like something forged from the depths of the earth, trapping the heat within.  Mithra had tagged in, switching places with the hunter.

       “How do you know about that?”

       “That is no longer Dean.”  Castiel’s growl raised the hair on Matt’s arms. 

       “But…how?”

       “You’ve been around angels too long, Father Murphy.  They view humans as something weak and inferior.  The Righteous Man is more than just a hole to be filled.  Michael’s battle with Lucifer would destroy the world and most of humanity.  The Righteous Man is supposed to guide Michael’s hand, not be placed under his thumb.  Heaven doesn’t deserve him.”  Matt didn’t hear the lie in his voice, but he didn’t know if gods and angels worked the same as humans.

       “And you do?” the priest demanded, gripping his shotgun tight enough that his knuckles went white.

       “No,” Mithra answered simply.  “But he chose me, and I’ll be damned if I ever make him regret that choice.”  The god turned his gaze on the angel suddenly.  “You know this plan is wrong, Castiel.  You’ve begun to doubt and you want to help.”

       Samandriel’s eyes went wide as he glanced at his captain.  “Castiel?  Is that true?”

       “No!”  Matt could hear the lie this time.

       Castiel had encountered angel-made gods before.  And he’d killed them when necessary.   Mithra didn’t seem frightened.  Castiel didn’t know if that was blind arrogance, a bluff, or simple stupidity.  He didn’t know if the same applied to him.  He looked at the truly amazing weapon held in Dean Winchester’s hand as it shifted from one form to the other, much like the being who held it.  He was reminded that Mithra was the god of the Roman army, the god prayed to by the soldiers of Persia before battle, and he had joined his father Michael and the forces of heaven in the first war against Lucifer, his children and the fallen angels.  He was the first of Michael’s children, gifted with many, if not all, of Michael’s powers and even blessed with his father’s scent. He was a beloved protector of humanity from drought and hunger, enemy armies, and demons.  Castiel quickly recalled millions of years or history searching for Mithra’s crimes.  He found nothing.  Logic would conclude that Mithra was not the enemy of humanity.  So why was he opposed to heaven’s plans for victory?  Why had he stolen his father’s vessel?  But could a human be stolen if they were blessed with free will?  And how did a god made from an angel have free will if the angel did not?  Did they?  Though he lacked the metaphor to describe it, Castiel’s train of thought had jumped the tracks.  His eyes quickly refocused to find the gold-flecked green eyes of the Righteous Man and god wrinkled at the corners with unconcealed amused satisfaction.  Castiel felt the skin of his face once again heating up from the rush of blood to the surface, revealing his shame at being caught off guard, his mind wandering while standing only twenty feet from an armed opponent.  But Mithra hadn’t pressed his advantage though he clearly knew Castiel’s attention was elsewhere.  What did that mean?

       “So…Cas…?  How ‘bout you take your hands off Matt?”  That was Dean.

        _How come you haven’t let loose with all that Karate Kid shit?_   He silently questioned his superhero.

        _Have you tried hitting an angel?  They’re made of bricks and steel._

Castiel frowned at the pained expressions on the faces of the two men until he realized they were conversing through their bond.  They looked constipated.  And…cute.  Under the incredulous stares of Father Murphy and Samandriel, Castiel opened his fist and released his hold on Matt Murdock.  “Angels are still trying to break the wards on Josie’s Bar.  They know about the soul bonds and the mating sigil, but not the possession.  Not yet.  We’ll wait until you leave.”

       “Castiel!”  The priest attempted to reach for Matt to prevent his escape, only to find the blind man easily evading his grasp as he strode towards the creature standing just outside the ring of protection around the property.  “Dean!”  This time the older man found himself looking into the dead green eyes of the four year old boy who stood on his doorstep in dirty pajamas all those years ago, a boy who’d just lost his mother and felt his father’s fists for the first time.

       Dean had to fight to find his voice.  “Who…”  He choked on the words, but forced them out.  “Who else knows?  Dad?  Bobby Singer?  Caleb?”  Matt knew better than to offer him comfort he would refuse.

       Pastor Jim shook his head, his own voice as lost as Dean’s.

       Dean nodded and his eyes shifted to his feet, Mithra’s weapon trembling in his hand.  Matt caught it before it dropped, holding it like he had been born to do so.

       “Matt…”  With a single word, the priest begged for understanding.

       “Leave him out of this!” Dean snarled, protective instincts unfurling with a crack like a sail in a stiff wind as he took a step to place himself in front of Matt.

       “Stop!”  Samandriel’s warning came too late to stop Dean from stepping over the boundary of the warding.  In an instant, all of heaven knew of Mithra's rebellion against his father and the danger to the prophecy.

       “Go!”  Castiel shouted before the first of the angels began to appear, the air filled with the enraged keening of the celestial host.

       Touching his lips where his unspoken apology still waited, the priest met Dean’s eyes one last time.  The rising sun robed the Righteous Man in a blinding aura, sending spots dancing across the older man’s vision.  Just as he raised a hand to cover his face he thought he saw a flash of golden wings raised to the morning sky.  And his boy was gone.

       One voice cut through the deafening thunder of the heavenly host.  Michael’s battle cry brought them all to silence:  _Dean Winchester must die!_


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter is for give-it-a-little-nudge. You have graced us again and again with speedy updates to your amazing universe in Caniformes. I can't match your precedent, but here's a little something to read when you catch a moment...but keep those Caniformes chapters coming! Please!

Chapter 25

       “Where are we?” Matt demanded as he fought the disorientation and nausea of interdimensional flight.

       Neither the god nor the hunter answered, but Matt could sense the outlines, the atmosphere and the energy of his own space. They were in his apartment. M watched Matt’s shoulders ease into a more relaxed posture. For Matt, that was the equivalent of a happy dance. “What are we doing here? Isn’t this place being watched?”

       “Not very well,” Mithra grunted from Dean’s body. “Until we kicked over the hornets’ nest a moment ago, everyone thought we were still inside Josie’s.”

       Matt listened and followed the movements as Mithra walked around the space, waving his arms and chanting something that was most definitely not English. He could feel the air alive with the summer scent of the not-quite angel and the strange electrical charge he had come to associate with the supernatural. There were other scents too…

       M watched Matt follow his nose. “I thought you’d be hungry. I know Dean is. The pie and burgers are for Dean. I got you…”

       “Nam Tok!” Matt snatched up a container, the escaping fumes warning that the contents inside were spicy enough to numb his lips. A large Styrofoam cup of milky Thai iced tea was waiting for him as well. He sat down, but hesitated before digging in. “So this is…”

       Mithra gave a chuckle. “Relax. I don’t know all your secrets.” After a wicked pause he added, “Just the important ones.” The chuckle turned to a laugh at Matt’s expression of violated irritation, complete with a pulsing jaw muscle that would have turned Dean to mush. But Dean was deep down right now. Mithra could feel the Righteous Soul’s turmoil like a migraine headache.

       Deciding food was worth more than righteous indignation, Matt began to eat. Cautiously, he let down his wall once more, ignored his own senses and focused on his bond with Mithra. With tilts and turns of his head, he followed the god’s movements through the apartment. He nearly fell out of his chair when M opened his bond fully, giving Matt Dean’s vision. Matt watched, mesmerized as glowing shapes and patterns appeared on the white walls, painted by the movements of arms and fingers that belonged to Dean but were currently controlled by Mithra. Matt struggled for a moment until he adjusted to the fact that he merely shared the view, but didn’t control it. “For protection?” he asked, continuing to watch through the bond. Even something as mundane as white walls with fading sigils was fascinating to see even if the eyes weren’t his own.

       “Yes. Normally, I’d trust the carvings on our bones to shield us, but, under the circumstances, extra protection can’t hurt. It’s not as secure as Josie’s, but it’s enough. I’m sure Dean will eventually want to give you the same paint job as Josie’s and scatter some devil’s traps around.”

       “How is Dean?” he questioned as Mithra emerged from casting the protective spells throughout the bedroom. The god gestured for a bite of Matt’s food. “Are you sure about this?” He raised his eyebrows in warning. Oblivious, Mithra pinched a bit between his fingers. He stuffed his mouth with the Dean-sized bite, slurping the juice and leaving Matt to wonder if Mithra was channeling Dean’s table manners (or lack thereof). The spicy Thai brought the mighty god to tears, much to Matt’s amusement. Mithra choked and sputtered until he snapped a glass of milk into existence and drank it in a single gulp. “I’d stick with the burgers.”

       Mithra smiled at the deadpan delivery, and took the blind man’s advice, sitting across from Matt and unwrapping one of the bacon cheeseburgers. At the pornographic moan from Dean’s body, Matt’s cock responded instinctively. That caused his brain to enter panic made. This wasn’t Dean right now. This was a god. A sex god. And Matt was fairly certain that Mithra didn’t bottom. He didn’t know what Mithra expected of him as a bond mate, but he figured it was more than enough that he had to share Dean. He wasn’t about to share himself. Using his tried and true method of dousing the flames of desire, Matt focused on the memory of Sister Constance from the orphanage. The elderly nun was a saint of a woman. She was fond of hugs for all the children in the orphanage, but she always smelled faintly of onions and urine and her chin hairs prickled Matt’s cheeks like pins. He pushed the memory through his bond towards Mithra.

       “Are you trying to make me lose my appetite?” The god grumbled as Matt’s thoughts traveled across their connection. “You’ll have to try harder. This is good.” M took another bite. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve tasted anything? Even when I’ve entered others, it’s not often they eat while I’m still part of the party. There’s always a monster to kill. A battle to fight and a victory to celebrate with passion. A wife to impregnate. A tragedy to fix.” He licked the juice off his fingers, the sounds conveying the action Matt couldn’t fully detect with his strange sight. The sounds and the action both caused a reaction in Matt in spite of Sister Constance. He shifted slightly as his borrowed jeans grew a bit uncomfortable, and swallowed the excess saliva that had started to fill his mouth. Dean. It was Dean he wanted.

       M sighed, putting down his half-eaten burger and pushing it away. “Dean needs help.”

       The comment was as effective as a cold shower. “Is he…” Matt couldn’t find the words, but the bond conveyed his question, as he bit his lower lip.

       “What do you think?” Mithra snapped. “You told him everything! You told him the man he loves more than his father has raised him to be nothing more than a sacrificial lamb! You told him he’s the harbinger of the Apocalypse!”

       “He has the right to know!” Matt responded in that firm tone, emphatic without shouting.

       Like Dean, M had no problems with raising his voice. “The right, yes! But not the ability to hear it all at once without shoving a whiskey bottle or gun barrel in his mouth!”

       The truth of that hit Matt hard in the gut. He shoved his own food away and sagged forward with his head in his hands. “I just thought, if he knows, he’ll stop it. He’ll fight them every step of the way. He’ll never say yes. Then he said yes to you, and I thought it was over, but it’s not. All day long I wanted to tell Dean what was happening, but I couldn’t make myself do it. Father Murphy called it a geas.”

       “A spell to force you to do something. Or not do something, in this case. Castiel prevented you from telling anyone what you knew.” Matt nodded his confirmation. “I could see the binding on you when I put my sigil in place, but to break it I would need time, Castiel, or a sliver of his grace. The honeybee trivia was a nice touch. Never figured Castiel had a sense of humor.”

       “You know him?” Matt asked.

       “All beings of grace know each other, or we did before my kind was cut off from heaven.” “I can still feel it there if I try to say anything out loud or write it down, but…”

       “But you could send it through the bond,” Mithra finished the sentence. “You didn’t have the bond when Castiel first cast the geas or he would have found a way to block that communication as well.”

       “I wanted to get it all out before Castiel figured out what I was doing and stopped me. Knowing and not being able to tell anyone or do anything about it…” He took a deep breath and let it slowly hiss through his teeth. Mithra moved closer. Through the bond he sent emotions rather than words: safety. He held his hands up, ready to let Matt move away, but the dark haired man actually leaned towards him. M let an arm slide up Matt’s forearm and bicep, then pulled him by his shoulder until he was held tight against Dean’s body. A second arm tucked Matt Murdock into the crook of Dean’s neck. The breath caught in Matt’s chest. Before he even realized what he was doing, one fist was clutched into Dean’s hair and the other into his t-shirt. A hand began to stroke his hair as dry sobs tore from Matt’s body involuntarily with the force of a seizure. Mithra held him and soothed him while the grief ran its course. Mithra, not Dean. Matt had no delusion about who he was with. Whether it was the relief of no longer having to bear the burden of his knowledge alone, or whether it was the unnatural bond causing him to trust when he had no logical reason to do so, Matt let himself be held and comforted.

       He woke with a start. He was in his own bed, his body gently rising and falling with the breath from the man underneath him. The soothing motion enhanced by the steady thumping of the heart in the chest where his head was resting. He tried to push away, but the arms around him tightened, holding him close only long enough to plant a kiss to the top of his head before granting him his freedom. Not knowing M was watching like a doting parent, Matt patted his hair back into place with a sleepy-eyed scowl. Matt enjoyed chick-flick moments as much as Dean. “How long did I sleep?” He couldn’t stop a yawn from stretching his mouth and muddling his words. His spine gave a crackle as he arched his back.

       “Not long enough.” It wasn’t quite Dean’s voice. Matt was already learning to detect the subtle differences in timber and inflection when Mithra controlled the instrument. Maybe not quite as bad as before, Matt once again tensed up as arms reached for him. Still, he didn’t move away. M counted that as progress. “Your sleeping habits are as bad as Dean’s. Here.” Matt let himself be turned so his back was to the god. Before he could fight back, hands began to work his shoulders, digging deep into the knots lying under his skin.

       “Oh, God. Oh, fuck.” Matt blushed. He wasn’t even that vocal during sex, but those hands felt so good he let another groan escape. “Dean?” It was a question, not a plea.

       "We do need to talk about our boy," Mithra agreed as he continued to release the tension in Matt’s back.

*****

       It was an accidental discovery.

       “No. He’s not in the cellar either,” Brett reported to the priest, wiping dust and a few cobwebs from his face as he and Foggy returned to the bar from their search. Sam and Karen weren’t far behind after their search of the upstairs.

       “Nothing,” Sam confirmed. “I can’t even figure out how he did it. We couldn’t budge a single window.”

       “Turk said the kitchen’s sealed tight too,” Karen added, knotting her long hair up in a bun. “He and Josie decided to raid the kitchen and feed us all since we’re trapped here.”

       The priest looked up from the table where John Winchester’s journal lay open amidst the faxed pages on exorcisms, demonology, and the Key of Solomon. He was cross-referencing the research and taking notes on a borrowed legal pad, a sweating glass of scotch on the rocks beside him. His face glowing with revelation and a sheen of sweat. The temperature inside the bar had been gradually, but steadily, rising as, unbeknownst to the humans inside and out, much of Castiel’s garrison kept up a continuous stream of magic in an attempt to break Mithra’s warding. The collision of the power of earth and the power of heaven gave off heat in both the visible and invisible world. The angels had added to their forces after Michael’s declaration but still the god’s magic held strong. “I think I found something.” Father Lantom waved the group over. “Here. Here. And here.” He pulled over the leather-bound journal and turned to John’s rudimentary understanding of protective warding, another entry on witchcraft, and a faxed page from the Key of Solomon. “Mithra made a key. A way to get in and out.”

       “Wouldn’t Josie have copies of all the keys to this place? I thought she tried them all already,” the detective commented. “Hey, that’s an easy fix.” Before he could walk off to find the bar matron, Sam grabbed his arm.

       “Not that kind of key,” the younger Winchester rolled his eyes. Impatiently he flipped through the passages marked by the priest. As understanding dawned, he smacked a fist down on the table. “I think you’re right,” he shook the priest by the shoulder, dislodging the older man’s glasses in his eagerness. “A key,” he began his lecture in prime prissy professor mode, though it was the priest’s discovery. “If the person or being has enough knowledge of sigils, warding and magic, he can use a base symbol to provide protection against his own kind, then customize that sigil to exclude himself.” Sam had a slight maniacal gleam in his eyes as he cast his gaze about the walls. “We just need to find it.”

       “Find it,” Karen repeated. Meeting Foggy and Brett’s eyes over Sam’s shaggy head. “Sam, the walls were covered with writing.”

       “Writing that disappeared,” Foggy reminded the younger man.

       The gangly moose of a young man sucked in his cheeks and chewed on his lower lip as he glared at the walls like they had personally offended him.

       Foggy’s eyes fell on the odd sword Matt’s kidnapper dropped. He picked it up, his mind trying to tell him something. Waving the sword idly in the air, his eyes focused on the spot over the front door…the spot that had been fiery when Matt tried to pull the angel across the threshold. No one was watching, each deep in their own reflections. No need to worry that he’d look like an idiot…not that he’d ever let that stop him before. And this was Matt’s life on the line. Maybe Dean’s too. Hell, all of them could be in danger. Was Josie’s really a safe haven? Maybe it was a cage. And, if so, they needed to know the way out before it was too late. Cautiously, Foggy approached the door, standing over the devil’s trap, the one sigil the god drew (except for the ones carved on Matt and Dean) that remained visible. Feeling like a fool, he raised the sword high above his head… The sigil glowed with a weak but visible light. “Guys…”

       The others glanced up then charged over to Foggy who surrendered the sword to Sam, the tallest of the group. The sigil glowed brighter the closer the sword came to the mark. Once the sword moved away, the mark became invisible again. “Quick! Copy it down,” Sam barked. “Draw it and document where it is.” The priest with the notebook and the pencil followed his instructions. Waving the sword as close to the wall as he could, Sam scanned the entire surface, but no other marks appeared. Continuing the search, like a treasure hunter with a metal detector, Sam moved to the next section of wall and began the process again, finding another sigil that responded to the sword.

       “Got it,” Father Lantom acknowledged once he’d copied the symbol and recorded its location.

       The process was tedious, but, thankfully, Josie’s was small. Still, Turk took over for Sam partway through the process, and Karen relieved Father Lantom before they were through. In all, throughout Josie’s bar, kitchen, cellar and living quarters, there were 64 sigils that responded to the angel sword. There wasn’t much conversation as the group ate the spaghetti Josie and Turk had thrown together in the kitchen. The drawings of the sigils were laid out in front of them along with John’s journal and the faxed pages from Bobby Singer. Sam cursed Mithra for cutting them off from their phones, the internet and a halfway decent library. His curse went unanswered.

       Hunters, lawyers, and cops were trained to notice patterns. While the rest of the group looked on Foggy, Karen, Brett and Sam organized the drawings into piles. Most of the sigils fell into several repeated patterns. Four were unique. “It’s here,” Sam tapped the four sigils that didn’t fit with the others. “One of these is the key.”

       “We’re assuming the boy at the door and Mithra are similar beings and that the sword will react to the sigils relating to both?” The priest asked.

       “You’re assuming they’re all angels of some sort?” Karen took it a step farther.

       “Yeah,” Sam admitted. “But these four… See, these two have that Zoroastrian Z that all the others are missing. I think one of these two lets him in and one lets him out.”

       “Say it is the key. What, we scratch through the symbol and we’re trapped here forever? We just locked out the one guy who has our key?” Foggy pulled his hair back away from his face.

       While Sam, Foggy, Brett and Turk argued about whether or not to lock Mithra out, Father Lantom, Josie and Karen studied the diagrams again. “What if some of these symbols lit up because of us, not the sword?” Karen asked. “It makes sense doesn’t it? Since we’re locked in ourselves? That some of these symbols must react to people?”

       The priest turned bright eyes to the young woman. “Brilliant!”

       “Do we…?” She gestured to the four men arguing. Brett now had the sword and was trying to play Keep-Away-From-Sam. The much taller Sam with the longer arms. Josie’s eye roll indicated her thoughts on the matter.

       Father Lantom gave a shake of his head and an expression which made Karen certain he had at one point taught middle school. “Not yet.”

       Josie squinted her drooping eyelids. Even for a bartender, she’d gone a long time without sleep. “Wasn’t there something behind the jukebox? Seems to me if any of us could make any of these things thing start to glow, it’d make sense to hide them.”

       Karen excitedly turned through the pages. “Yes!” She found the jukebox sigil and slapped it down on the table and began searching through the small stack of designs they had paired it with. “All of these were in odd places: the ceiling, near the exit sign – which would disguise the glow, a tiny one under a poster near the pay phone… No. You don’t think? That’d be too easy, and nothing this far has been easy.”

       Josie pulled a box cutter out of her pocket and extended the blade. “’S my bar, ain’t it? Let’s put it to the test.”

       The argument between the four men sputtered to an outraged halt as the phone in Foggy’s pocket began to ring. Karen’s grin at him from where she stood at the payphone across the room lit up the grimy little bar.

       Sam’s fingers immediately tapped Pastor Jim’s number into his phone and waited for the priest to pick up. “Jim!” he shouted as the older man answered the phone sounding worse than John Winchester hungover from a three day bender. “You’re never going to believe this!”

*****

       Matt held his breath as he let his fingertips rest oh so softly at the corners of Dean’s eyes. He felt the shift of those eyes as Dean dreamed. Dean hadn’t protested as Mithra subdued his consciousness as they were leaving Blue Earth. He’d welcomed the peacefulness, resting suspended in the thick golden honey glow of Mithra’s grace, while his mates took control, and plotted and planned.

       Dean never got what he wanted. He felt the loss as Mithra gently untangled himself from his soul. The voices in his head were louder than his mates. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Matt and Mithra that nightmares took over Dean’s subconscious as soon as the god freed himself from the vessel. Mithra’s presence had kept the dark shapes and cruel voices of Dean’s psyche from seizing complete control. Now, they were in charge. With Matt’s help, Mithra focused on transforming the nightmares, sending thoughts of laughter and comfort through the bond, memories of warm chocolate pecan pie and Beatles tunes, and promises to be there when he woke.

       Dean’s eyelashes began to flutter against Matt’s fingertips as the battle woke him, the nightmares and dark thoughts still in control. Matt smoothed the wrinkles off his hunter’s forehead as he gently shushed Dean’s awakening panic. “It’s gonna be okay, baby. I’m here. Right here with you. You’re not alone.”

       Still only half aware as he fought his way out of the deep slumber, Dean released a cry so pitiful Matt cried with him, but he continued to cover the younger man’s body with his own, keeping Dean from pushing him away and running. The hunter squirmed and fought against Matt’s hold, but they’d established the night they met that Matt was stronger and better trained, and that hadn’t changed. Something about that didn’t sit well with Dean.

       He increased his struggle, even going so far as to throw in a head butt that caused a busted lip, and biting into Matt’s chest when the opportunity presented itself. A handful of seconds later, Dean found himself flipped face down onto the mattress with a mouthful of pillow and his arms twisted behind him, Matt’s elbows and knees digging deep enough into sensitive spots that Dean whimpered as he continued to resist. The struggle came to a standstill as Matt bit down hard on Dean’s earlobe and Dean felt the horned head of his amulet piercing into his sternum where it was pressed tight between his body and the mattress. That’s when he knew what was so strange: Mithra had left him. He hadn’t just left Dean’s soul adrift. He’d left it behind. The inhuman strength and resistance to pain was gone. The touch of soft feathers and warm sunlight against his soul, gone. That feeling that he was safe and accepted and…you know… All those things Dean had spent a lifetime longing for and never thought he would have, gone.

       Mithra had battled demons that didn’t put up as much of a fight as the voices in Dean’s head. _I’m still here, princess. I’m not going anywhere without you, Dean._ Mithra pushed assurances through the bond.

        _Why did you leave?_ The question came from a grubby little boy with bruises and green eyes too big for his face.

        _I didn’t leave, baby. I just didn’t want Matt to get hurt, and I know you don’t want that either, do you?_

        _No_. He was rewarded by Matt removing the vice-like grip of his teeth from Dean’s earlobe.

       “Good boy,” Matt whispered into his ear before moving his mouth to that spot below Dean’s ear, licking and scraping the skin with his teeth. Dean’s body shuddered. Part of him wanted to melt into Matt’s magic touch, but the itch for a fight was still there, the need to be overpowered. Dean made another attempt to thrash himself loose from Matt’s hold, which resulted in Matt moving his arms into an even more uncomfortable stretch. Matt wasn’t without his own wounds from the fight, and now that Dean was subdued he claimed his prize. On the side of Dean’s neck, Matt found the large bruised mark he had created earlier and set about making it even darker.

       The pain woke Dean up, but his mind was still reeling. He needed to fight, to scream, to hurt. How could Matt still want him? He didn’t deserve comfort. He didn’t deserve soul mates and boyfriends… “Matt…” He was too ashamed to say it. Fuck. He was a fucking mess. Why did heaven want him? Why did anyone want him? The one good thing in his childhood had been Pastor Jim, and now even that was spoiled for him. It had all been a lie. What was he doing here? He needed to find the demon. He needed to get to Sammy and keep him safe. No! Damnit! He needed to stay away! He needed to be moving. He needed to hurt! He didn’t deserve kindness. He didn’t deserve Matt or Mithra. He was the end of the world! He was worse than any monster! “Matt…” Dean wordlessly pleaded. For what, he didn’t know. Pathetic. Stupid.

       “No, baby. No,” Matt responded to Dean’s diatribe, hearing it clearly through the bond. “I’ve got you.” He had to concentrate to stay afloat and stay the course or he’d be swept away with Dean’s dark thoughts.

       “Matt…” Dean repeated his plea.

       “Okay, sweetheart. I know.” He didn’t loosen his hold on the hunter though the fight seemed to have gone out of the man. “You gonna be good for me, baby? Stay still?” Dean did the opposite, squirming underneath Matt’s weight. Dean didn’t want mercy. He wasn’t good. He had to get away! Taking a chance, Matt freed one of his own hands to give Dean the hardest swat he could manage to the outside of his right thigh. With the smack, a grunt escaped the younger man.

       Dean’s body trembled under Matt’s as he berated himself for pissing off the lawyer. Couldn’t even follow a simple order. No wonder Dad left him behind. Matt deserved better.

       Shit. Matt eased his hold on Dean’s arms and Dean used them to cover his head. Carefully, Matt pried Dean’s arms away and, this time, pinned them to the mattress instead of behind Dean’s back. “I’m not mad, baby. Listen to the bond. Stop talking and just listen.”

       Dean wanted to be good. He tried so hard. But the kind words and tender emotions sent him flinching backwards from the connection to his mates. “Matt…” There was that plea again. He didn’t want kindness. He didn’t deserve it. He wanted pain and he only knew one way to find it. “Please. Matt, please. Please.”

       Matt had to rethink his definition of heartless. Which was worse: to let Dean wallow in undeserved guilt, or be the one to hand out undeserved pain. He’d heard too many stories that night about Dean’s attempts to punish himself, and if Matt didn’t do something, he knew Dean would. They didn’t have time for years of therapy. Dean didn’t have time. He nuzzled into Dean’s sweat damp hair, drinking in the scent of the man he couldn’t help but love. “Okay, baby. Okay.” He gripped Dean’s wrists tight enough to leave more marks on his hunter and laced his voice with a bit of authority. “Don’t move until I give you permission. Can you do that, Dean? For me?”

       “Yeah.” There was another hard smack in the exact same spot as the first. “Yes!” Dean yelped. “Yes, sir. I can be good.”

       “You are good, baby. So good. I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” With another kiss to the damp skin at the nape of Dean’s neck, Matt put himself in motion. He rolled off Dean and crossed the room to his dresser. “Okay, Dean. Stand up.”

       Dean moved so quickly he stumbled, but he caught himself and within seconds he was standing in front of Matt. Green eyes full of hunger were glued to the wooden hairbrush in his boyfriend’s hand. Cock already at half mast.

       “Is this what you want, baby?”

       “Yes, sir, Matt. Please. Will you… Please?”

       “Will I what, Dean?” He’d heard the shift and the change in the tone of voice as Dean had dropped his glance to the floor. He reached out and tipped the lowered chin back up. “Say it.”

       “Spank me.” It was a whisper. The chin defiantly jerked out of Matt’s hand and dropped back to Dean’s chest.

       That wouldn’t do.

       Dean whined as Matt fisted his short hair and pulled his head back up. “You want it, baby, you say it right. Try that again. What do you want?”

       “Spank me, Matt. Please. I need it. I want it to hurt. I need it to hurt. Please. I…” Dean couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out until he was shut up by Matt’s mouth on his in a punishing kiss that left him breathless and sore, wanted and wanting. Matt wanted him. God help the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

       Matt didn’t give Dean the chance to convince himself that it was all a mistake. As soon as he pulled his mouth away he untangled his fingers from Dean’s hair and issued the command: “Strip.”

       “Yes, sir.” Dean was toeing off his boots at the same time he was pulling his t-shirt over his head, unable to obey fast enough.

       “Stop.” Matt almost chuckled at Dean’s not-so-silent growl. Dean teetered on one leg with his arms still tangled in his shirt. “Slow down and tell me what you’re doing.” Another growl. “That’s an extra one with the belt after the hairbrush, baby. And M’s already given me a number for the strapping. He really doesn’t like it when you call him ‘dude’.”

       Dean’s mouth went dry. He lowered his shirt and reached to adjust his swollen dick where it was pressing against the zipper of his jeans.

       “Did I give you permission to touch yourself?” Matt’s growl was much more intimidating than Dean’s.

       “How did you…?” Sure he had superpowers, but the dude was blind! Come on!

       “You finish that question, Dean Winchester, and I swear to God you’ll never sit down again without a twinge in your ass.” Matt could hear Dean gulp as the Winchester realized he was serious. “Do I make myself clear?”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “I added on five more with the belt.” Dean really didn’t have a problem with that, though he might regret it when the time came to pay up. “Now. Are your shoes already off?”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “Socks?”

       “No.”

       “Take them off.”

       “Matt! This is ridiculous! I thought…” The wind was knocked out of Dean as he was shoved down and bent over the bed. With deft fingers, Matt stripped him of his belt and quickly bared his ass. Dean cried out as the strap began to fall, but it was the cry of a drowning man at the long awaited sight of safety.

       Matt didn’t give Dean time between blows for the pain to turn to hot and throbbing arousal. When he dropped the belt Dean was breathless from what had become one long scream. He was crying freely, but it was from relief as much as pain. Still, he protested at the thought that they were done.

       “We’re not done,” Matt promised. Kneeling beside Dean, Matt took off the younger man’s socks. “How does it feel?”

       “Not enough, Matt. I need…”

       Matt covered Dean’s mouth. “How does it feel?” He slowly moved his hand away, giving Dean enough time to think.

       “Good. Hurts, but it feels good too. And…uh…I can feel the blood pulsing in my ass, and…well…that makes other things start throbbing as well.”

       “What other things, Dean?”

       “My…my dick, and…you know…inside.”  Matt decided the power of Dean's blush could fuel the power grid for New York City.  

       He let a finger drift down the cleft of Dean’s ass to rest on top of the tight furl of his hole. He could feel the pulsing heat himself. He gave that lovely ass another pat. “Stand up.” When Dean followed his direction, Matt wrapped him tight in his arms from behind, hooking his chin over Dean’s shoulder. He pointed. “What do you see, baby?”

       “A…a mirror.” Dean licked his dry lips, transfixed by their reflection in the mirror over Matt’s dresser.

       “Obviously I’ve never had much use for it. Until now.” He ran his hands over Dean’s t-shirt, thumbs finding the smooth skin of Dean’s flat nipples and rubbing over them until they pebbled. “Tell me what you see, Dean.”

       “Us.”

       “You can do better than that, I’m sure. I need you to be my eyes, baby.” He nudged Dean closer to the dresser. “Brace your hands.” Dean could do so easily without bending over. “Let’s start simple. What color is your hair?” He remembered Foggy’s description and he had the few images he’d received from Mithra burned into his retinas, but he wanted this from Dean.

       There was a pause, but not a long one. “I don’t know. Brown, I guess?” The whack to his ass wasn’t unexpected, but it was the prompt Dean needed. “I mean, it was blond when I was a kid, but it got darker when I got older so now it’s kinda like, not brown brown, like chocolate, but more like… Do you remember what wood looks like when it’s left out in the weather for years? An old porch swing…I guess there aren’t many of those around Hell’s Kitchen, but imagine where the paint’s worn off and the sun’s bleached out the slats? Or driftwood? Did you ever see some of that as a kid? Not quite brown, not quite gray, not quite blond.”

       “That’s perfect, Dean,” Matt mumbled into Dean’s skin as he nibbled on the nape of his neck. “Love hearing you talk.” His hands gave Dean’s little nipples a final mild pinch making the hunter hum deep in his throat. “Love the noises you make.” Hands then slid down Dean’s torso to the hem of his t-shirt, slipping under the fabric and climbing back up the ladder of his ribs, taking the t-shirt with them, and making the ticklish man whimper a plea for mercy that Matt was willing to grant. This time.

       Dean didn’t know whether to watch Matt’s hands or his own neglected cock as it strained upward, seeking attention, precome dripping from the slit. Once the t-shirt was off, Dean placed his hands back on the dresser without being told.

       “Tell me about your eyes.”

       “Ma-att,” Dean complained only to get another spank that made him draw in a sharp breath. “They’re green.” There was more than a hint of stubborn brat in the blunt and overly simple description that earned him two more spanks.

       “That’s another lick with the belt, baby. That first set doesn’t count. I just needed to shut you up. You’ve still got my hand and a long session with my hairbrush coming too. Don’t bite off more than you can chew or I may decide to save some for tomorrow.” Assuming they survived the psychopaths, demons and pissed off angels to last that long. But that’s why they were here now. Doing this.

       “Want it today and tomorrow both,” Dean whispered. “Every day. Want your hands on me, Matt. Wanna wear your marks, babe.” He blushed so hot, a drop of sweat trickled down his face like another tear. “Please?” And just like that, Dean gave Matt what he needed too.

       It was Matt’s turn to groan, thrusting once helplessly against Dean’s hip until he regained control. “I want that too, precious.” He turned Dean’s head so he could claim the younger man’s mouth, grasping Dean’s jaw to hold him still while his tongue stabbed its way inside to take possession. When Dean started to shift his body, Matt broke off the kiss with a nip to Dean’s plump lower lip. “You still belong to me, Dean. I’m not letting you go. And if we can’t stop the Apocalypse together, I’ll be right at your side when the end comes if you let me.”

       They’d both said too much. Talking time was over.

       Fingernails scratched over Dean’s chest, catching on the hard nubs of his nipples and flicking over them again and again. “Matt.” Dean’s breath was coming faster. Again and again. Now Matt pinched them hard between his fingertips. “Aahh…” There was the sound of a breath sucked in too fast.

       Remembering Dean’s responsiveness from the night they met, Matt continued to toy with the younger man’s chest, squeezing his pectoral muscles hard so his nipples stood out like the peak of a mountain, he lowered his mouth to bite. Dean arched his back into the touch. Too soon, Matt turned him back towards the mirror. “Is your face red, baby?” He could feel Dean’s nod. “What about your freckles?”

       “Hate having freckles,” Dean muttered, butt cheeks clenching as he waited for the swat he knew was coming. “I can always see ‘em. Stand out even more with my face red.”

       Matt touched Mithra’s sigil. Dean whimpered as a jolt of electricity shot straight to his groin sending a spurt of precome from his dick.

       “Shit,” Matt gasped, feeling the echo of Dean’s arousal. “That feels good.” He brushed over it again, tracing the scar with his thumb. He and Dean both trembled.

       “God, Matt. I think I could…”

 _He can_.

       Matt was more interested in seeing if M was right, than complaining about voyeuristic angels. He spun Dean back around, pushing him up onto the edge of the dresser and latching his mouth over the bond scar. Dean came with a scream, splashing come over his own chest and part of Matt’s and the other man had to fight to keep himself from doing the same, leaving more finger shaped bruises on Dean’s arms. Warmth like a sunbeam drifted across Matt’s own scar and he had to fight even harder. Speaking of harder…Dean let loose a kittenish mewl as his erection returned too fast to have been the result of anything other than divine influence.

       “Sadist,” the lawyer accused the third person in the room.

 _Sex god_. Mithra’s response was smug as he sent another wave of sensation through the sigil.

       Matt’s growl rumbled low in his chest as he remembered the surprise he’d nearly forgotten in favor of taming the urgency of Dean’s need with the belt. He tugged at the waistband of the skimpy panties, separating them from the jeans where they both hung low on Dean’s thighs and letting the latter fall to the floor. “Tell me about this?”

       “M did it.” Dean’s entire body flushed with humiliation, waiting for Matt’s scorn.

       “You didn’t want it?” Even though the sound of his own pulse was hammering in his ears, Dean could tell that Matt wasn’t disgusted.

       “I… He…” Dean stuttered. “Maybe?”

       “Maybe?” Matt repeated. Dean groaned at the effect of Matt’s stern voice. He felt a little smaller, a little younger, a little safer. And Matt knew it, and reveled in it. “Do you like wearing panties, Dean?”

       “Only ever did it once before. Long time ago.”

       “You didn’t answer my question.” That voice had a direct pathway to Dean’s dick.

       “Yes, sir.”

       “Why do you like them, sweetheart?”

       “They’re soft.” Dean spoke so quietly Matt wasn’t sure if he was hearing his voice in the room or through the bond.

       “Mmhm. They are.”

       “It feels good.”

       “Think they’ll feel even better when you pull them up over your sore bottom?” Strong hands gave the round ass a squeeze, the welts from the strapping standing out proudly. Dean could only groan as an answer. “I like them too, baby. Especially when they’re soaked with your come.” He pulled the soft fabric back up over the swell of Dean’s ass. “Turn back to the mirror, Dean. I want to spank you with those panties on.” He helped Dean get in position. “Eyes on the mirror. You’re gonna watch.” Matt lay down two dozen hard swats and Dean watched as his face turned impossibly redder and the flush crept down his neck and chest, his eyes glazed with tears, and the wet head of his penis poking out from the top of the panties, dripping more precome onto the growing wet patch on the front of the satin material.

 _Beautiful, princess. I’m so proud of you_.

       “Me too, baby.” Matt reached around stroked the front of Dean’s panties, smearing jizz over the head of his penis and barely digging a fingernail into his slit. “Dean.” Matt planted kiss after kiss over Dean’s back before gathering the satin fabric covering Dean’s hips into one fist and pulling it up until it was buried deep into the crack of his ass. He ran an appreciative hand over the warm cheeks and down Dean’s thighs, lightly tickling his balls that were now bulging from the sides of the panties which were painfully tight. Teasing over, the spanking resumed until Dean’s tears began to fall, but his eyes never left Matt’s reflection in the mirror. “What color are they?” Matt asked.

       Instead of answering, Dean attempted something new. He knew Mithra could let Matt see through Dean’s eyes. Dean wanted to see if he could do the same.

       “Dean?” Staring through Dean’s eyes, Matt took in the sight of his lover’s face then caught the first glimpse of himself since he was nine years old. Even though he knew the shape of his face, it was like staring at a stranger. Did he always look so serious?

       “Dude, you’re whippin’ my ass. Of course you look serious.”

       Matt watched his own hand reach forward to stroke the bulge of Dean through dark green satin, watched Dean thrust his hips into the touch. The vision momentarily dark as Dean closed his eyes to savor the pleasure, only to pop open wide when Matt gave him another spank. He saw Dean’s cock jerk at the spike in the hunter’s arousal. “Can you…” His hand brushed over the hot spot he’d just left on Dean’s ass.

       “Hell, yeah!” Dean hopped off the dresser with a smirk and twisted his torso to try and give them both a look at his bottom. The round globes of flesh were blush red with a few pink welts from the strapping. Pretty, but he knew Dean could take more. Dean wanted more. Hell, he might as well admit it, Matt wanted more. With a final look, he gave Dean a kiss of gratitude then peeled the satin away from Dean’s crack and slid the dainty garment off, leaving Dean completely naked. Kneeling, he kissed the spank-warmed and belt-marked bottom and gave it a possessive bite before rubbing his stubble covered cheek over the sensitized skin.

       Standing, Matt took Dean’s wrist and led him to the bed. He sat down on the edge and picked up his wooden hairbrush. “Still want this, baby?”

       Dean nodded. He already felt better, but everything up to now had just been a diversion. The need for more was still there pulling on his soul. “Yes, sir.” He let Matt guide him over his knee, chest resting on the bed and his legs in the vee between Matt’s strong thighs. The tension eased from his body and he melted across the older man’s lap as Matt wrapped an arm around his waist to hold him in place. Finally. This was what he wanted.

       There was no warning. As soon as he felt Dean settle, Matt started delivering whacks with the hairbrush in a steady pattern: three on the left cheek, three on the right cheek, right sit spot, left sit spot, back to the cheeks. The burn was building, and the spanks were hard enough to make him holler, but it wasn’t enough for either an emotional or physical release. “Matt!” The steady rain of blows continued. Like the spanking with the wooden spoon, it was painful, but the regularity was almost soothing, like the patter of the rain on the roof and the windows.

       Matt had let himself be lulled into the rhythm as well, missing the frustration in Dean’s voice and the bond. When he felt Dean begin to pump his hips in search of friction to get off, he readjusted his flustered brat so that Dean’s feet were flat on the floor supporting his weight and only his head and shoulders were resting on the mattress. Which meant Dean’s ass was in the air with nothing underneath to rut against. Matt let Dean realize his predicament then began spanking again in that same pattern.

       “Matt! Oh! Ow! Babe! Ow! I-Ah! Need! Fuck! Babe! Please! More!”

       “My way, Dean.” The spanking continued. Matt should have become suspicious when Dean became quiet. Mithra watched the situation unfold in amusement.

       Matt felt the burst of elation second hand as Dean stroked the bond scar until he got his orgasm.

       “Ha!” Dean’s gleeful little victory shout turned into howls as the spanking took on the extra edge. When Matt finished, Dean’s butt was raw, his sit spots bruised, the backs of his legs to his knees were fiery red, and his face was sloppy with tears, spit and snot.

       “Come here, baby.” Matt drew his mess of a lover up onto his lap, ignoring the whimpers and whines as his backside scraped against Matt’s jeans. He painted circles in the sheen of sweat on Dean’s back and with the other hand, guided the hunter’s head to his shoulder as he continued to cry. “Was it too much?” He held his breath waiting for the answer. Dean shook his head.

       Matt brought their foreheads together. “Can we skip the extra licks with the belt, baby?” Matt had gradually realized he’d misjudged Dean’s tolerance and had been manipulated by his smarter-than-he-let-on mate. He may have added even more to Dean’s punishment when he made that discovery. Dean had taken it all. Still, Matt thought he might have reached his own threshold.

       “I can wait ‘til tomorrow,” Dean agreed. He licked Matt’s neck, cleaning off the mess that had transferred from his face to his superhero.

       “Don’t hold your breath.” Matt continued to run his hands over Dean’s back, humming comfort and praise. Mithra murmured similar encouragement through the bond to both his mates. M knew what it took for Matt to deliver this kind of punishment, he was learning and he deserved just as much praise as Dean.

       Eventually, Matt’s hands moved to the round curves of the hunter’s perfect ass, made even more perfect by the heat casting an aura around Dean’s backside that Matt could see. It glowed like something holy.

       Dean shifted to give Matt better access, his knee nudging against Matt’s groin. “M’s not the only sadist, I see.”

       “Let’s hope he’s not the only sex god either.” Matt winced at his own cheesy line, but Dean’s laugh was worth the embarrassment. He grasped handfuls of Matt’s dark hair as the lawyer began to suck new marks onto his shoulder. Whether it was the soulmate connection, Mithra’s bond, his own growth in maturity since the last time he had been with a man, or Dean’s easy pleasure, Matt kissed and touched the younger man with confidence. Karen…hell, any lover but Dean would never measure up to this. The muscled body of The Righteous Man was responsive enough to react to the lightest touch, but strong enough to take anything the Daredevil could dish out. Maybe he was a bit of a sadist, but playing Dean like an instrument – a caress here for a sigh, a scratch there for a moan, a swipe of his tongue to raise the volume, a pinch for a whimper, the symphony moving faster and faster, louder and louder, until Matt directed the next movement – Matt had never felt so much control or satisfaction in bed.

       At last, with Dean face down and ass up, Matt kneaded the well-punished flesh of one round cheek, and, while the hunter wriggled and whined, Matt slipped a generously lubed finger into the tight little furl of Dean’s ass. “God, Dean. How long has it been?” Matt let Dean clench and squeeze down as his body fought the intrusion, but the finger stayed put.

       “Haven’t been with a guy since before Sammy joined me on the road, and only one girl since then. ‘M clean. In case you were wonderin’. I wouldn’t blame you if you were. When I got electrocuted, the hospital ran every test known to man, an’ I passed with flyin’ colors.” Dean turned his head to bury his face in the pillow, muffling the next words. “Just…if you want to. It’s okay, I mean.”

       “You want to say that again?” Dean needed to learn to play by Matt’s rules. Words. No more tricks to get what he wanted.

       Dean got the message. “Want to feel you inside me, Matt. Every bit. No condom. Want you to open me on your cock. Split me open. Fuck me til I’m screamin’ and paint my insides with your come. Want it drippin’ outta my ass so every damn monster and angel knows I’m yours.”

       With pride, Matt studied the glowing presence spread out before him. “Yes, sir.”

*****

       Dean’s ass was still screaming inside and out, but he only made a hum as Matt pulled him closer. Dean was the little spoon and he didn’t care. He’d lost track of his orgasms. Apparently, being mated to a pagan fertility god had its benefits.  Matt was just as susceptible to the effects of Dean’s mouth or fingers caressing the sigil branded into his chest. His palm rested over Dean’s belly possessively. Matt was positive he’d pumped so much come into Dean that the slight little pooch under his hand was all his doing. They’d finally stopped when Dean began begging for food louder than he was begging for sex.

       “Real food, Murdock,” he’d grumbled around the come-coated fingers Matt stuffed in his mouth and ordered him to suck. “Pie. I smell pie.”

       “My dick feels like a firecracker on July 5th,” the lawyer moaned. Dean shuddered in sympathy. Gently, Matt pushed Dean onto his stomach. Rough hands ghosted over the hot skin, adding a firm smack here and there where the temperature wasn’t quite as intense.

       “Miss a spot?” Dean asked once he got his breath back.

       “Not anymore.” Matt continued to admire the results of his labor of love until Dean began to fidget. “So. You think you want to do this again tomorrow?”

       “Matt…” Dean stilled, and Matt could feel the darkness waiting in the wings to tell him it was wrong for him to want this. That he couldn’t have this. Couldn’t have Matt. He gave Dean a spank that blasted through the room like a strike of lightening and sent the cruel little whisper of John Winchester scurrying away.

       “Dean, you’re the answer to every fantasy I’ve ever had that let me still be me.” Another spank that had Dean kicking. “I want to be that for you too.” This time Matt used the hairbrush to punctuate his remark. “As long as I know I’m taking care of you, I don’t care what Sam or Foggy or the rest of the fucking world thinks about what we do.” Another whack, followed by a shouted curse from the hunter. “And if you want me to blister your ass every day…” Whack! “I will.” Two this time. Dean cried out, but he was already rutting against the mattress. “And if I have to fight you every day to get you over my knee…” Three. Dean’s hips were bouncing as he chased another release. “I will. Because…” A strike and a scream as Dean came hard, ass clenching. Matt grabbed his own aching dick, jerking himself rough and fast. “I.” Matt continued to spank Dean through the hunter’s orgasm. “Want it.” Another ferocious swat had Dean overstimulated and begging. “Too.” A final blistering spank and a few more movements of his hand and Matt shot hot white streaks of come across Dean’s red ass. “Mine.” The renewed declaration sent aftershocks through both men.

       A feline smile occupied the freckled face as Matt massaged his come into Dean’s skin. “What about the hunting?”

       “There are plenty of monsters in New York City. Or, if you get called someplace else, we just happen to know this guy who can zap you back home to me in the blink of an eye.”

       Home.

       “’Kay.” Dean turned his head to kiss Matt’s palm. The older man’s stomach took a roller coaster ride. He held his breath. He waited for any cue from the bond or Dean’s body to say that this was a mistake. Dean continued to nuzzle his hand. This wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a trick. Contentment radiated from the righteous soul.

       “Dean?”

       “Matt?” The younger man pretended to be oblivious. His tears had dried. He was naked and sore and still hungry…and his chick-flick quota had been filled for the next ten years. “There better be pie.”

_One step ahead of you, princess._

       Not ten minutes later, Dean lay on his stomach across the bed, humming the tune to Ramble On around mouthfuls of warm cherry pie, his ass once again draped over Matt’s thighs as his boyfriend (hell, yeah) slathered his spanked parts with some kind of cream that cooled the heat and smelled like a two lane road through the mountains. Finishing the job, Matt scooted out from under Dean and stretched out beside the hunter who had abandoned the fork and was cleaning out the pie pan with his fingers. The noises, the long minutes spent stroking Dean’s red ass, and the thought of a happy Dean with lips red and sticky from pie filling as he sucked a cherry from his fingers had Matt’s libido back in the game. Rising to his knees and pulling the hunter’s short hair, he dragged Dean away from the empty pie plate and put his messy, talented, glorious mouth to much better use.

       The sound of a sex god’s smug laughter echoed in their heads. _You’re welcome_.

*****

       Matt was close enough to feel the burst of heat that nearly blinded his senses as Mithra reunited with his vessel, the rapturous pleasure of the moment, wasn’t as strong as the previous union, but still was enough to make the superhero and the hunter cling to one another to keep their feet.

       Dean felt a tingle of energy through his body, as Mithra healed the worst of the marks and damage to his backside. _Those are mine_. If it could have, the shimmering soul would have stamped a foot. He’d earned that ache and all those beautiful bruises.

        _Another time, little one. Now’s not the time or the place for you to be slow and limping_.

       Matt put one hand on Dean’s ass, relishing the remaining heat, and with the other, pulled him close for a kiss. “I’ll put them back, baby. Every single one.” He enjoyed the hunter’s enthusiastic kiss for a moment before spoiling the mood: “You just have to ask for it.” As expected, that brought a complaint from the younger man. Matt couldn’t help laughing…

       The laughter cut off like the flip of a switch. Matt grabbed Dean’s arm, still damp from his recent shower. “Someone’s here.”

       Instantly the god came to the forefront with his mace drawn, and the superhero and the supernatural being attuned themselves to detect what was out of place, easily opening the bond between them. Matt marveled, for the few seconds he could spare, at his sudden willingness to trust both the man and the creature beside him, but he couldn’t deny how easy it was and how right it felt…and how the guilt and separation had torn at him when he was trying to keep away. And, he was realizing now, as Mithra’s supernatural awareness and Dean’s hunter’s instincts were feeding his mind with information beyond what he could understand or comprehend on his own, the connection had a value beyond mind-blowing and never-ending sex. He allowed his own assessment of their surroundings to flow to his companions.

       Considering Dean had devoured the cherry pie and any scraps of leftover filling had been used to lube Matt’s cock as he’d fucked Dean’s mouth, it was the scent of cherries that betrayed the intruder...and an energy output as great as Mithra’s when he manifested himself inside Dean. But just as Matt was preparing himself for battle with another angel, a laugh erupted from Dean’s throat and he charged out of the bedroom. “Loki!”


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

 

       “Loki!”  The bellow from Mithra sounded of fond exasperation, but Matt noted from the radiant power that the god didn’t put away his weapon before charging out of the bedroom to greet their guest.  Matt also noted (with his own share of fond exasperation) that Mithra stood between him and Loki with an arm held out in an attempt to keep him sheltered behind Dean’s now super-powered and super-impervious body.  Matt shifted to give himself a clear line to observe the other god.  He wasn’t impressed.

       The massive amount of energy was contained in what seemed to be a relatively small package that was sitting on Matt’s uncomfortable couch, apparently unfazed by Mithra and his mace.  The newcomer smelled strongly of cherries and vanilla, like pie a la mode, with the faintest undercurrent of jasmine.  Even more faint was the whisper of ozone, like a long neglected memory, almost forgotten.  There was a crinkle of paper-thin plastic, the motion of a hand, the sound of a slurp, and a new smell surrounded the stranger, sugar and the nostril-stinging whang of fake watermelon and bubblegum.  The scent of the candy concealed the finer notes of Loki’s personal scent.  “Hey, Sunshine,” the trickster greeted his old friend and gave another suck to the Blow Pop in his hand.  “So that’s the meat suit sending your Dear Ol’ Mikey into a conniption?  Gotta say, I’m impressed.  I’d do the little mud monkey.”  He was met with twin growls from Mithra and the dark-haired human who gave off his own aura of danger.  The human earned Loki’s smirk as if he was nothing more than a posturing chihuahua to the diminutive god.

        _Who’s he callin’ little?_ Dean added his ire to the mix.

       The seated god, gave an elaborate eyeroll.  “I get it, I can admire the view, but no sampling of the merchandise.  But speaking of the merchandise, with those lips, that ass, and all those beautiful noises I heard coming from the bedroom, I could make him a star.  Wouldn’t Mikey just _love_ that?”  With a wave of his fingers, a business card appeared between them.  “Loki De’Angelo:  Owner, producer, director, talent scout, and talent extraordinaire  (he accompanied the last with a waggle of his eyebrows) for Casa Erotica Productions.”  He leaned forward and tucked the card into the front pocket of Dean’s jeans.  Leaning back he angled his hands to frame a crotch shot of the Righteous Man.  “Mmmmm,” he sighed happily, cheeks hollowed as he sucked loudly on his candy.

        _How much money are we talkin’ about?_

Unamused, Matt reached for Dean’s arm when another growl from M towards Loki reminded Matt that Dean wasn’t in charge at the moment.   That didn’t stop either of Dean’s mates from correcting his misconception. 

_You’re not for sale, baby._

_You’ll never have to do that again, little one._

       Matt felt a shudder go through the bond, like the hitch of a breath before a sob, but, in what Matt already knew was typical Dean fashion, the words didn’t match the emotion:  _Gives me the tingles when y’all get all possessive and growly._

Matt’s life was full of secrets.  The last two days had added even more.  He didn’t want this to be one of them.  _Love you too, Dean._

The burst of emotion from the Righteous Soul pushed Mithra out of the driver’s seat.  Dean’s squawks, stutters and hand-waving were adorable.  Without Mithra in control, Dean’s heart beat faster and his body temperature went up, making his presence glow even more brightly in Matt’s vision.  “I…You can’t…We…That’s…”

       Before the younger man actually began to choke or his head exploded, Matt caught a flailing wrist and jerked him close enough to claim his tongue-tied mouth, trapping him in the kiss as one hand knotted in Dean’s short hair and the other held him firmly by the back of the neck.  _You don’t have to say anything.  I know._ Permission granted, Dean stopped struggling against the kiss.  He’d already melted into the embrace.  His fingers dug deep enough into Matt’s arms to leave his own marks behind, and his tongue and teeth fought Matt’s for dominance . 

       “Seriously?”  Loki used the sucker to point at Mr. Broody McBrooderson and the (holy fuck) Righteous Man.  “You’ve spent the last four hours putting my greatest hits to shame and you’re _still_ horny as fuck?  Anyone ever warned you guys about chafing?”  He let his grace deliver a bitch-slap to the other immortal.  “What the hell did you do to them, Mithy?” 

       The nickname prompted Dean to tease his other soul mate across their bond, the distraction costing him the victory in the battle of claim-or-be-claimed he had going with Matt.  A blanket of Matt’s emotions wrapped around Dean’s soul without smothering the light or binding the fragile tendrils of soul that sprouted like gossamer wings from Dean’s shoulder blades…  Wings?  

        _I know._   M responded to the expression on the dumbfounded Loki’s face in a voice heard only by the other god.  A speechless trickster was a miracle in and of itself.  The wings were…Mithra didn’t know what they were and he had kept their recent appearance from Dean and Matt.  Dean was still human.  A human who was multi-soul bonded, then triple-spirit-linked to a metahuman and a god.  A human who was the true vessel for one of the most powerful beings ever created.  A human who had been dosed on angelic healing grace repeatedly throughout his lifetime and was recently cured by a reaper.  A human surrounded by magic and monsters, angels and demons.  The Righteous Man.  But still just a man.  Barely out of boyhood.  But he had just wrested control of his vessel from the god.  Not that M would have denied him, but Dean hadn’t asked.  He was growing stronger the longer soul and grace remained in contact.  Parenthood must feel like this, M decided:  A combination of pride and terror.

       Matt felt something foreign brush against his mind.  He froze, mid-assault on Dean’s kiss-bruised lips and pushed back against the intrusion.  Mithra felt the trespass as well and Dean gave control back to the god.  Instantly the horns of M’s mace were pointed at Loki’s heart, making indentations in his hideous hula-girl Hawaiian shirt.  The whiskey-eyed god raised his hands in surrender.  “You know I had to check out the new fam-damn-ly, Mithy.  The Righteous Man and a mutate?”  The sucker returned to his mouth and he slowly pushed the mace back an inch or two with a single finger placed between the two horns.  “You gonna introduce me?”

       Mithra gave a huff, but he lowered the weapon and a moment later it disappeared.  He extended a hand and pulled the smaller man to his feet.  “Loki, this is Matt Murdock, consort, soulmate and bonded to Dean Winchester, my true vessel and The Righteous Man.”  Mithra didn’t stop Loki from tugging at the neck of Dean’s t-shirt to expose the bonding scar.  “He is bonded to me as well.  They both are,” M admitted as if Loki didn’t know the meaning of the mark.  Loki was still uncharacteristically silent.  “Matthew, this is Loki, the trickster, also known as Kokopelli, made from Gabriel the way I was made from Michael.  Like me, he has survived long enough to have made more than one name for himself.”

       Matt didn’t offer his hand.  “And why is he here?  How did he get in through your warding?” 

       Once more the sucker popped out from between Loki’s cherry stained lips.  “Didn’t.  Mithy (Dean’s pointed amusement passed silently to his mates, feeling like a chortle only they could hear) couldn’t lock me out, ‘cause I was already here.”

       Mithra was close to pulling his mace from its hiding place once again.  “Why?”

       “Why?”  The sucker disappeared though the smell it had produced lingered.  Loki was through joking.  “You took Michael’s true vessel!  You’re fucking with the prophecy heaven and hell have waited for over a thousand years to come to pass!  And you think they’re going to let you walk away?  Any of you?  This is Michael we’re talking about!  He’ll level New York to the ground!”

       “He’ll do that anyways, and you know it!  Michael abandoned Earth when God abandoned heaven.  Unless someone takes a stand, we’re all doomed.”

       “And that someone is you?” Loki sneered.  “Well, at least Mikey graced you with his ego.”

       “At least I’m going to try!  What about you?  If you want to spend your final days on sex and suckers while the world burns, don’t lecture me about ego, Loki!”

       “I’m here, aren’t I?”  Loki uttered the words as if he couldn’t believe them himself, but there was fire in his golden eyes and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.  He turned away from Mithra and walked a few steps, his hands coming up to tug at his own hair.  “Lucy’s still in the cage.  The Apocalypse isn’t happening today.”

        _Lucy?_   Dean was amused while Matt’s poor devout soul choked wordlessly.  M ignored their antics.

       “So we have time to plan.”  Mithra didn’t follow Loki, but he allowed a hint of a plea to enter Dean’s voice as he tracked the other god with his eyes.  “I’m in New York because a demon released a daeva that’s already killed four people.  This isn’t just a rogue demon.  There’s some type of plan to target Dean, his brother Sam, and their father.  Maybe the end isn’t here yet, but someone’s making a play.”

       Matt surprised everyone, himself included, when words came tumbling from his mouth.  “Hell has been finding ways to feed Sam demon blood.  When he does, he attacks Dean.  Heaven isn’t trying to stop it.  Castiel was ordered not to intervene; to let whatever is going to happen here in New York happen.  That’s why he came to me.  He thought I could help Dean fight this battle and leave Sam out of it.  Avoid a grand confrontation between the brothers that would push them further apart and leave them both vulnerable, especially Sam.”

       Loki watched in confusion as a feral grin stretched across Mithra’s face.  “Castiel just removed the geas.”  Matt nodded, the eyes behind his glasses wide with shock.  M punched the air in victory…or maybe it was Dean.  Definitely Dean.  Matt wanted nothing more than to kiss his mate silly in celebration.  Except maybe to follow that kiss up with Dean riding his cock, bouncing up and down, each down thrust punctuated by Matt’s name panted on a huff of air or a sinful moan, Matt’s fingers digging into Dean’s hips and adding to the bruises…  The bruises Mithra had erased.  Unfortunately, Mithra was in control at the moment, and, while Matt had been surprised to find that he didn’t mind the god watching him claim, dominate and fuck Dean, Mithra wasn’t Dean in spite of the fact they shared a body.  Matt found himself turning a glare in the direction of the two gods, the one for keeping Dean from him and the other for making the presence of the first necessary.

       Mithra looked at his growling mate then cast his own glare at Loki.  “None of your games.”

       The shorter man smirked with his eyes while his lips pouted.  “I have no idea what you mean.”  Regardless of Loki’s words, Matt felt the pressure in his chest ease.  He blinked in confusion as his sudden anger towards M faded.  “Sorry, cupcake, but that stick’s just shoved so far up your ass I couldn’t help myself.”

       Matt cast a look at M.  “I don’t like him.”

       “Awwww, don’t be that way, cupcake.  Look, I come bearing gifts.”  With a snap of his fingers a lacquered chest appeared at his feet.  “Why don’t you and Dean-o go play while the adults have a heart to heart?”  With that, he disappeared, silently beckoning to Mithra to follow him.

       “He’s not gone,” M warned.

       “I know.  Now that I know his scent, I can still smell him.”

       The god put a hand on Matt’s shoulder.  “Loki’s an acquired taste, but he’s an old friend.  I trust him.” 

       Realizing M was asking his permission was a startling realization.  That trust gave Matt at least the much-needed illusion of some control over the situation.  It was a relief, but also a weight on his shoulders.  Still, that weight grounded him.  He sighed, but gave a nod of consent. 

       M’s smile was warm and he squeezed the blind man’s shoulder.  “Loki wants me alone, so Dean will stay here with you and I will close the bond, but if you need me…”

       “I’ll pray.  Castiel already gave me the tutorial.”

       M’s smile grew wider.  “He trusts you.”

       Matt wasn’t sure whether it was so much Castiel’s faith in him as the angel’s fascination with Dean, but he kept his mouth and the bond silent.  M pressed a kiss to his forehead that Matt accepted like the blessing it was intended to be, then M joined Loki, vacating his vessel in a burst of energy.  Dean stumbled, but Matt’s arms circled his middle and didn’t let go when he tried to push away.  “Sit.  I’ll get you a glass of water.”  He eased Dean onto the couch, before moving towards the kitchen.

       “I’d rather have a beer!” Dean called after his retreating back, before eyeing the lacquered chest Loki left behind like it was Pandora’s Box. 

       Dean frowned at the bottle of water Matt passed him, but before he could open his mouth to object, Matt cleared his throat in warning.  “No, I didn’t make a mistake.  Drink that.  You’ve got to be dehydrated.”

       “You’re dehydrated,” Dean mumbled.

       “And you’re cute when you pout, but you’re still not getting a beer.”  Matt frowned.  “Really, Winchester?  Did you just stick your tongue out at me?”

       “I’m still not convinced you’re blind, Murdock.”

       Matt leaned into Dean’s space, pressing the hunter against the arm of the sofa with his body as he pushed a finger into the suddenly slack (and silent) mouth, dragging it across the surface of Dean’s tongue.  Matt’s own tongue licked a stripe up Dean’s stubbled cheek as he pushed his finger back in between the plump lips, this time using his nail to lightly scratch against the grain as his finger slid down the surface of Dean’s tongue.  He licked and bit tenderly along the younger man’s jaw.  “The tongue is unique,” he whispered.  “Thousands of miniscule extensions cover the surface.  I can hear each one catch against your lips and your teeth when you slide it out of your mouth.  I can hear how wet your mouth is, and hear the hitch in your breath as you bite down for just a split second to pose with the tip of your hot little tongue exposed and cooling in the air.  Then I hear it slide back in.  Not quite the same sound my cock makes slipping into your slick and fucked-out little hole after I’ve already taken you apart.  Not quite.  But still a delicious noise.”  By this time Matt had four fingers filling Dean’s mouth, and spit was already dripping down the hunter’s chin.  Matt bit down on the bolt of his jaw then licked over the mark.  “I love that sound, baby.”  Freeing his fingers from Dean’s mouth, Matt wiped them dry on Dean’s t-shirt, raising the tail of the shirt to wipe the hunter’s chin as well.  “Now drink your water.”  

       Dean blinked in confusion, pupils dilated with arousal as he waited for more.  He already missed Matt’s touch.  Matt who was now seated on the opposite side of the couch, staring at Loki’s gift as if he had x-ray vision.  Wait.  Did he have x-ray vision?

       “No, Dean.  I don’t have x-ray vision.”

       Crap!  Did he say that out loud?

       “Yes, you did.”  Matt had to pause a moment.  Did Dean say it out loud?  He must have.  There had to be intent to communicate anything other than general emotions through the bond.  It didn’t allow mind reading.  But Matt was finding he had a knack for reading Dean.  It was one of the things that had drawn him to the younger man so quickly.  The kid had baggage that could sink the Titanic in a New York City pothole.  He lied for a living.  But he didn’t play mind games.  Matt wanted to see Dean’s face because it was beautiful, not because he thought there was a hidden agenda behind his eyes or the twitch of his lips.  For a guy that didn’t talk about feelings, Dean’s were still easy to detect…and Matt liked that ease and the growing confidence it gave him to give Dean what he needed, even when he didn’t ask.  But making him ask, and giving him what he asked for…Matt loved that.  Most of the kids in foster care or the church home where Matt had spent much of his childhood, had been neglected or abused.  It took weeks, months, or sometimes years before they dared to ask for what they wanted.  Hell, it wasn’t just the fear that kept them silent, sometimes it took that long for his new friends to even realize they could want something for themselves.  Matt had heard enough about Dean’s youth to know he was one of those kids.

       Dean cleared his throat to steal Matt’s attention back from wherever it had wandered.  “Dude, you left some unfinished business here.”  He gestured to his crotch.

       Matt leaned over once more to bite at his hunter’s protruding lower lip and place a palm over the erection making Dean’s pants too tight.  Then he pulled back again.  “There’s always going to be unfinished business between us.”

       “Why’s that?”  Dean tried to sass, but his voice was breathy and Matt wasn’t helping with his stupid sexy voice, and stupid intense face that both was and wasn’t a stare, and his stupid fingers tracing stupid patterns over…  Matt shut him up with another kiss.  “Shit,” Dean gasped when he broke away for air.  “You heard that too?”

       “Mmmm,” Matt hummed in what Dean was pretty sure was agreement.  “We’re always gonna have unfinished business, because I’m never gonna get my fill of you, Winchester.”

       Matt could feel Dean’s conflicting doubt and longing.  Forever was a fairy tale the monster slayer didn’t believe.  Rather than argue, he just shifted their positions, squashing himself into the corner of the sofa and pulling Dean into his lap where he could wrap his arms around the younger man and hold him like the child he had never had the chance to be.  Dean grumbled, of course, but eventually settled with his nose pressed into Matt’s neck, only to grumble again when Matt leaned them both forward so he could snatch up the water bottle.  “No more delays.  Drink this.”

       “Or what?  You’ll spank me?”  Dean wiggled his ass temptingly, though he did take the bottle.

       “You’re saying I have to get more creative?  It’s not really a punishment if you like it, now, is it?”

       Dean’s hum as he swallowed down half the bottle was noncommittal.  “I don’t always like it.”  Dean’s muscles twitched, reminding Matt of his lessons with Stick.  Once the man realized Matt’s abilities he didn’t just train the young boy to fight, he taught him to watch for those subtle involuntary shifts of muscle which would tell him whether an opponent was going to move left or right, fight or flee.  Dean was preparing to make an escape.  Matt wasn’t about to let him go, but he knew that the tighter his grip the more likely it was that the younger man would slip away.  

       Dean released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding back when Matt’s arms stopped circling him like iron bands and, instead, one of the man’s hands rested over his beating heart and the other stroked up and down his arm.  Unlike during sex, Matt didn’t push, he waited for Dean to talk.  After a few more deep breaths, he did.  “Sometimes I hate it.  Sometimes I need it.  Sometimes I want it.  Sometimes I deserve it.  Sometimes it’s all the above.”  The muscles twitched again.  “Told you I was fucked up.”

       “You’re not fucked up, Dean.  A spanking can be good or bad.  It can be abusive.  Or cathartic.  Or sexy as hell.  It can be punishment or pleasure.  It can be for the benefit of the spanker or the spankee.  And sometimes it can be all of the above.”  He palmed the curve of Dean’s ass, enjoying the heat, the shape, the clench of the muscles.  But he didn’t take it any further.  The touch alone was a comfort to them both.  “It’s okay to be confused, baby.  We’ll figure out what makes us happy, okay?”  He didn’t miss the tiniest of nods.  “Okay.”  Matt’s whisper was just as faint as Dean’s nod, and Matt had a tight rein on what he allowed through the bond, but through the kiss he placed on the top of Dean’s head, he tried to speak volumes. 

       They lay together unmoving for no more than a few minutes, but Dean’s mind was anything but quiet.  There was a storm of emotions threatening to tear him apart.  Shock, punishment and rough sex had only delayed the onslaught of the storm and somewhat subdued the juggernaut of guilt which tended to beat into submission all the other emotions Dean was capable of feeling (except worthlessness, which was guilt’s favorite sidekick and partner in crime).  Regardless of Sam’s thoughts on the matter, Dean’s problem had never been that he felt too little.  But showing your feelings meant showing the chinks in your armor.  Hiding behind a poker face, a crude joke, or his father’s orders had always been the safest choice.  Well, maybe always was a bit extreme.  Usually.  Most of the time.  Definitely better than 50/50.  Maybe…  Anyway, Dean was so well-versed in the art of hiding he did it without thinking.  Except now there was no place to hide.  Matt and M had front row seats to the shit show in Dean’s head.

       “Thoughts like that, baby, are gonna end in another discussion with you bare-assed over my knee while I use Josie’s wooden spoon to convince you of the error of your ways.”  Dean huffed in irritation even as he arched his back against Matt’s chest, prompting the other man to once again wrap him in his arms.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

       “About what?  Spanking my ass?”

       “Pastor Jim?  Angels?  The Apocalypse?”

       Those words triggered another storm of unsavory emotions in Dean’s head.  “Nope.”  Dean was destined to start a war that would destroy most of humanity and kill Sam.  He would cause more death and devastation than any monster he’d ever hunted.  He was supposed to kill Sam.  To go against the very first order, the very first job he’d ever been given.  To abandon his guiding purpose and lifelong mission.

       Or let Sam kill him first. 

       Honestly, if it was that simple, Dean would gladly take his own life to spare Sam that burden.  But when was anything ever simple for a Winchester?  When Dean had stood in the field at Blue Earth and Matt had thrust through the bond everything he had learned...he hadn’t held anything back.  Dean knew he’d had some low points in life.  He knew he’d thought about suicide on multiple occasions, had the plan, set the scene, everything ready for the moment of execution (Ha), but he’d never gone through with it.  Except now he realized that hadn’t been his choice.  The angels weren’t going to let him die.  Suffer, yes.  The Apocalypse didn’t require a happy Dean, only a living one.  In fact, a clinically depressed, suicidal Dean was perfect for their purpose.  Nothing to live for.  Nothing to cling to.  Of course he’d say yes to Michael.  Yes, to the chance to defeat the devil himself.  Yes, without asking too many questions.  Yes, only to have all traces of himself wiped away by the archangel who only wanted a weapon.  A vessel.  An empty hole to fill.  A whore.  A sacrifice.  A pretty boy without a thought or a will of his own.  A puppet.  Mindless.  Brainless.  Helpless.  Worthless. 

       “No.  No, Dean.  Dean…”  Matt felt adrift, like a splinter in a tidal wave made up of snatches of thought, words and phrases, slurs and insults, the memory of pain that still felt so real it stung Matt as much as Dean.  _DEAN. HUSH._   The mental command was delivered with the force of one of Matt’s rare shouts, and accompanied by the weight of Matt’s body slamming Dean flat underneath him, straddling the hunter’s hips and crushing their lips together hard enough that Matt tasted blood. 

       Dean went still like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming semi.  “Matt?”

       “I’ve got you, Dean.  I’m not letting go, baby.  You can’t scare me away.”

       “But…”

       Matt shut him up with another kiss that left him so breathless he couldn’t argue.  “No buts, Dean Winchester.”  The next kiss was tender, but it kept Dean’s mouth and his mind occupied.  Kiss followed kiss.  Not the type that led to the bedroom, but the kind that spoke of love instead of lust.  And Matt prayed, not to Castiel or Mithra, but to God himself.  Gradually, Matt felt the tension ease from his lover’s body and he gave a sigh of relief as he rolled to his side, pulling Dean with him.  “The voices in my head can be just as loud and just as ugly as yours.  Sometimes I think I’ll explode from rage, and other times from guilt.  You hunt monsters.  I hunt people.  And I hurt them.  And I lie to myself and pretend I’m one of the good guys because I’m not a murderer.  But is it really any less of a sin to leave someone crippled, or in a coma?  I’m a lawyer who doesn’t trust the law.  A Catholic who goes to confession looking for absolution when I’m not sorry for my sins.  I never asked Karen on a date because I’m a coward.  I was afraid she’d see what I was inside.  I was afraid I’d hurt her.  Afraid she’d run away.  And afraid she wouldn’t at the same time.”  If he’d been able to see, Matt would have noticed jade green eyes bright with unshed tears.  If he possessed Mithra’s grace he would have been able to see wings, wispy and miraculous extensions of Dean’s soul, folded protectively around him.  “From the moment we touched.  The fear of never having you for myself outweighed the fear of trying.  It made me brave enough to stake a claim, to tell you who I am and be who I am when I’m with you.  I’m still guilt-ridden and self-righteous.  I still have anger issues and, apparently, a massive stick up my butt.  I’m not perfect.  You’re not perfect.  That’s not who we are.  But in spite of all this supernatural stuff, I’m still me and you’re still you.  We both want to be better, but it’s all we’ve got.  And I think we fit together pretty damn well.”  Matt chose not to comment on the growing wet patch on his shirtfront.  He did draw the line when Dean used said shirt to wipe his runny nose.  “Gross, Dean.”

       “Not my fault.  You broke the goddamned no-chick-flick-moments rule.”

       “Brat.”

       “Dick.”

       “I love you too.”

       “Shut up, Murdock.”           

       The next time it was Dean’s natural restlessness that caused the hunter’s jitters, not an impending panic attack.  “Should we open the box?” Dean asked, squinting at Loki’s gift as if it might bite, though he leaned towards it at the same time like a moth drawn to a bug zapper.

       “Hell, no.”  Matt tangled Dean up in his limbs once again.  “Not until M gives it the all clear.”

       “M wouldn’t have left us with it if he didn’t think it was safe.”

       “We’re not kids, Dean.”

       Dean was quiet for a whole eight seconds.  Matt couldn’t see the mischievous gleam in Dean’s green eyes, but he felt the hunter’s body go still and stiff and felt Dean take a quick but deep breath.  “I’m gonna open it.”  Dean’s dive for the mysterious gift was thwarted by a kick from the superhero that sent the box skidding out of his reach.  The duo tumbled onto the floor with Matt beneath Dean, chest aching from the sudden expulsion of breath from his lungs caused by the impact of Dean’s body.  Dean made another leap for the package, but Matt caught his ankle and dragged him backwards.  Twisting onto his back, the hunter kicked out.  Matt blocked the kick, but had to release his hold to do so and Dean pushed off one more time, skittering forward on his hands and knees.  He was laughing so hard that he had to wipe the tears from his eyes.  The moment’s pause was all Matt needed to tackle Dean.  Wrapping his arms around the younger man’s waist, he pulled Dean to the floor then straddled the younger man’s legs.  Dean’s attempts to kick and buck became even more frantic as cruel fingers dug into the soft ticklish spots between his ribs.  Dean yelped and began to beg almost immediately, or he intended to beg, but laughter and panic limited his pleas to stuttered variations on Matt’s name.  As Matt leaned forward onto his knees to reach Dean’s armpits, the hunter rocked and wriggled himself onto his back, his shirt riding up dangerously.  Distracted by skin and Dean’s quivering tummy, Matt didn’t think of Dean’s flailing hand as a serious threat.  He regretted that as soon as Dean’s fist made not so gentle contact with his testicles.  Dean gave a shout as he gained his freedom followed by a victory whoop as he reached Loki’s treasure chest.  Up close, he saw there were carvings all over the surface of the lacquered box.  His hands faintly trembled as his fingers traced over the images. 

       “Dean?”  The stern growl near his ear was accompanied by the scrape of teeth on Dean’s neck and the press of Matt’s chest to his back.  Fingers gripped Dean’s short sandy hair and forced his head back onto Matt’s shoulder.  Dean felt the rasp of Matt’s dark stubble rubbing against his cheek like sandpaper before the possessive bastard bit hard into the curve where neck and shoulder met.  Matt smiled, but didn’t release the mouthful of flesh.  Dean didn’t even realize he’d arched his back at the initial pain, then went completely pliant in his lover’s arms, the motion causing his ass to grind against Matt’s crotch and the hard line of his cock.  Matt could smell the spurt of precome Dean had released when he felt Matt’s bite.  The hand not pulling Dean’s hair, slid down the hunter’s body to squeeze the bulge behind the zipper of his jeans in a grip that wrung a whimper out of the younger man.  Confident that he’d left a dark enough bruise, Matt opened his mouth, soothing the deep indentations in Dean’s skin with wet kisses.  “You fought dirty, Winchester.”

       Dean groaned and thrust up into Matt’s almost painful grip then sagged back, once again grinding his ass against Matt’s tireless dick.  “’M…n-not res-ponsible for my actions if you’re t-ticklin’ me.  Fight or f-flight, man.”

       “Or I just need to teach you some control.”  Matt’s voice dragged over Dean’s soul just like his calloused fingertips dragged over the strip of exposed skin between Dean’s jeans and the pushed-up hem of his t-shirt.  The muscles under Matt’s touch trembled in anticipation.  “Don’t move.”  There was no doubt Matt had given him an order.  Part of Dean balked.  That part of him wanted to snarl at the expectation and push back.  But the other half of his nature had his body already still, had him holding his breath eager to obey and hoping for more, for another clear direction that he could follow, for a way to earn Matt’s praise and his love… 

       Love.

       Matt went as still as the stiff body sandwiched between his hands and his chest, wondering what had pushed Dean back into a panic.  Through the bond surged the stinging pain of Dean’s ice-cold and electric fear.  “Easy, baby.  I’ve got you.”  He breathed deeply, hoping Dean would sense the rise and fall of his chest and let himself calm.  It could have been mere minutes, but Matt was certain they’d held position for nearly an hour: an hour of Dean’s pulse drumming against his fingertips; an hour of breathing together until, not only their lungs, but their hearts fell into sync; an hour of the soft spikes of Dean’s hair tickling his face as the scent of soap, fresh sweat and fading arousal filled his nose; an hour meditating peacefully on Dean, remaining steadfast while letting the younger man’s emotions wash over him.  Matt lost track of where he ended and Dean began.

       A whisper broke the silence.  “I love you too, Matty.”

       The rhythm of Matt’s breathing faltered before he surged to his feet and pulled Dean into his arms bridal style, ignoring his squawk.  Entering the bedroom, Matt went straight to the bed and deposited his precious cargo in the middle of it.  A hand planted firmly in the middle of his chest kept Dean where Matt had placed him as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen straddled his hips.  Carefully, the blind man removed his wire-rimmed glasses, letting Dean see his pale eyes.  Bending himself down, he kissed his lover’s forehead, his eyes, the tip of his nose.  Reaching up, Dean halted Matt’s show of affection, and, raising himself a few inches off the bed, he gave the kisses back with a tenderness that few people were ever privileged to see.

       “I love you,” Dean repeated, using his thumbs to wipe away the wetness gathering under Matt’s eyes.  With hesitant fingers they reverently exposed their bodies, minds and souls already laid bare and quivering with fragile hope.  Each man echoed the same three words across their bond every few minutes.  There was no teasing, no game of dominance, just adoration.  Matt’s lips moving over Dean’s neck and chest.  Dean’s hands caressing Matt’s body and all his scars, accepting him.  Dean gave himself completely to Matt.  Thanks to M’s healing touch, even after hours of their earlier rough sex, Dean’s hole was puckered tighter than a frightened virgin.  As one slick finger circled the clenched muscle, Matt pressed kisses to Dean’s belly and the inside of the one thigh Matt had hiked over his shoulder. 

     Dean moaned beautifully when the wet heat of Matt’s mouth encircled the head of his dripping cock just as the cool slick of Matt’s lube-coated finger pushed inside his ass.  The tip of Matt’s tongue probed Dean’s sensitive slit.  With his thumb, Matt put pressure on Dean’s perineum while inside his fingertip massaged the bundle of nerves that had Dean crying out and arching his back, canting his hips inches up off the bed.  One finger became two only when Dean was shuddering and tearing the sheets loose from the bed with his clenched fists.  Matt bobbed his head slowly along the length of Dean’s dick, flailing the silken skin with lashes of his tongue as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked.  With the bond open, Matt felt the ghost of his own actions and knew instantly what Dean liked and what he wanted.  Dean wailed, his head tossing back and forth as teeth lightly scraped up and down his length then began to just barely nip at the smooth head.  The hunter jerked his hips wildly, fucking himself on three of Matt’s fingers and his lover’s deliciously cruel mouth.  Matt crooked a finger, letting it prod Dean’s prostate with every thrust while the other two digits reached deep and scissored open, stretching his channel and prepping him for Matt's cock. 

       Tuned in to his love, Matt knew when Dean’s balls began to draw up, eager to spill their release.  Responding to Matt’s silent command through their connection, Dean whined but tried to hold back his orgasm.  Matt didn’t make him wait long.  When Matt asked him to come, Dean did so immediately, clenching down on the invading fingers and shooting pulse after pulse of semen into Matt’s open mouth.  Matt didn’t swallow.  Through bleary eyes Dean watched Matt rise above him, the bond conveying what was expected of him.  Wrapping his legs around the older man’s narrow waist and tangling his fingers in the dark hair of Matt’s chest with one hand and the fine hair curling on the back of his neck with the other, Dean pulled Matt to him, and opened his mouth to be filled with his own come in a filthy kiss as he was split wide on Matt’s cock. 

       Inside Dean’s body it was hot, and slick, and so so tight the blind man had to groan his pleasure and take a moment of stillness to keep himself from coming right then.  After adjusting Dean’s hips, Matt pinned Dean’s hands to the mattress, knotting their fingers together as he licked into the mouth of The Righteous Man.  Dean felt the dick inside him give an impatient twitch and he clamped his muscles around it, causing Matt to break the kiss.  Bringing their foreheads together, Matt began a tortuously slow pace.  Dean felt every inch slide out of him until his rim clutched desperately at the head of Matt’s that was stretching him wide open.  Only at the last minute before he fell free of Dean’s body did Matt change directions and push back inside, every slide rubbing against the bundle of nerves that had Dean babbling curses and hard again.  After several minutes, Matt’s own dick was begging for something different.  He kept the pace slow, but each thrust was forceful and deep, punching a gasp from his hunter.  He could feel Dean’s swollen cock trapped between their sweat-slick bodies, the hunter silently begging for another release as he writhed under Matt, desperate for friction.  Matt didn’t disappoint.  Grinding their bodies together, he took Dean to the brink of a second orgasm before he levered himself up, moaning as he began the slow slide in and out once again. 

       They each held tightly to the other’s hands as they climbed the mountain.  Every pulse of Dean’s blood was a caress to Matt’s skin, a drumbeat to his ears, and a squeeze to his cock.  He filled the hunter, but the Dean encircled him.  He was a powerful mind, Dean was a powerful soul.  Through M’s bond they each felt everything the other felt, knew everything the other thought, and gave everything the other needed.  Dean bucked up to meet every thrust of Matt’s hips.  The obscene slap of skin against skin nearly buried beneath the short cries of need, lust and hope that Dean didn’t even realize were coming from him.  He never closed his eyes, watching Matt’s skin flush from pink to red, watching the sweat bead on his forehead then trickle down his cheeks and to the tip of his nose, the salty drops occasionally falling to anoint Dean’s own face.  He watched the apple of Matt’s throat bob, his tongue swipe over his slightly parted lips, and his face light up with every noise of pleasure he pulled from Dean’s own mouth.  He watched himself be loved, while tears and adoration spilled from his own eyes.  The relentless hammering of his prostate caused him to come with a scream, his eyes finally forced shut.  Matt gave his own constricted shout as Dean’s body grabbed his dick in a painfully perfect vice.  His growl was determined as he resumed the punishing thrusts.  The hunter yelped like an outraged pup as the oversensitive bundle of nerves was pounded again and again, but he kept himself open and willing to take everything Matt had to give, pain as well as pleasure.  Nothing was too much.  Dean wasn’t afraid of Matt’s dark side, he wasn’t going to pull away.  Matt reached the mountaintop and plummeted over the edge knowing, for the first time since his father’s death, that someone would catch him before he hit the bottom. 

            The golden strands tethering their minds glowed.  No words needed to be said aloud.  Their connection was complete.  M’s seal wasn’t broken by force, but it had melted away easily and he didn’t resist.  He wanted to share in this experience that might very well be their last if what Loki said was true. 

            Michael had ordered Dean’s death.  The archangel correctly deduced that killing Dean would sever the bond with Mithra and with Dean’s human companion.  Heaven planned to capture Dean’s soul and hold it captive until the time came for battle then they would resurrect his body and restore his soul in time for Michael to take possession of his weapon.  Castiel and his garrison would no longer need to play babysitter and Hell would have the opportunity to prepare Sam for opening the Hell Gate without Dean’s interference.  Loki claimed the information had come from a fallen angel still connected to the hive communication bond all the creatures of heaven possessed.  M wondered how he had received the information so quickly and still beat them to Matt’s apartment, but he knew Loki well enough to know that Michael’s threat wasn’t a lie, and that the god would never reveal his source.  M trusted Loki with his life, and that extended to the lives of the two human mates he would leave in the trickster's care while he set out to track down the hell tramp with a daeva at her beck and call.

            A sad ache radiated from Loki as he watched the couple continue to make love, their souls sparking like striking flints.  Matt’s fingers traced the contours of Dean’s face with an awe that bordered on blasphemy while Dean’s soul seemed to have grown even more.  Dean Winchester’s soul was the brightest mortal soul he had seen in over a millennium.  A sign, but one Loki could attribute to any number of destinies.  He couldn’t ignore the wings, however, the wisps of soul that had escaped the confines of the vessel.  Mithra had never seen such a thing before.  Loki had.  He didn’t know whether to bow before the green-eyed human or run the boy through with his blade, chop him into bits, burn those bits to ash, and toss those ashes into the deepest darkest crevice under the ocean, guarded with curses and mythical beasts.  Loki was nothing if not thorough (and melodramatic).  Looking on that soul, Loki knew without a doubt that Dean Winchester was the Righteous Man and that he was more than Michael could ever hope to control.  Mithra had described the suffering and humiliation endured by the child, adversity not fated, but engineered by both heaven and hell to create something soft and easily manipulated.  Instead the fools had forged a weapon of incredible strength and endurance, the instrument of their own destruction.  God had let his angels cut their own switch, and they were about to feel its sting.

            _And that is the fourth rule of prophesy_ , Mithra agreed with his friend before he departed, _they are much easier to interpret in hindsight._              

*****

            Sam waited impatiently for an answer to the ringing phone.

            “Hello,” the man sounded like Sam had dragged him out of the grave and he was still choking on the dust.

            “Pastor Jim?  It’s Sam.  Something’s happened to Dean!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I've posted a new story, an original work set in the 1970's, and I would be thrilled if you would click over to read and share your comments (and hopefully kudos:) on it as it develops (there are over 20 chapters in the hopper, so it can be posted quickly for a while). It's quiet and lonely over in the original work neighborhood, so come visit! I'd copy the link here, but that exceeds my technical abilities, so here's the teaser... 
> 
> Sons, Saints and Sinners: Broken Bonds
> 
> The Sons called themselves a social club, a fraternity, a secret society. They were a gang. They got away with the deception because they didn’t fit your typical image of a gang. In 1977, that word conjured up images of Hell’s Angels or poor kids from a bad neighborhood a la the Jets and the Sharks or S. E. Hinton’s Outsiders; thugs who wore dirty denim and leather proudly emblazoned with the name of their organization; boys who came across so tough you crossed the street to avoid crossing paths. On the contrary, the Sons weren’t from one neighborhood or even one school. They weren’t the outcasts, they were the rock stars. From outward appearances they were polite, upper middle class, intelligent young men who had successfully navigated the horrors of high school and adolescence. Every guy wanted to be one, every girl wanted to date one. It was how they lured you in. Waxer was in.


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